You’ve Reached Sam: A Novel

When I wake up in the morning, something is different. I sense the warmth of someone beside me. But when my hand moves across the sheets to find them, no one is there. It’s only me again. I rub my eyes until the walls of my bedroom come into focus. Streaks of light glimmer across the ceiling like sunlight on water. If it wasn’t for the thin window curtain, I wouldn’t know it was daylight out. It’s one of those mornings where you don’t know how much time has passed since you fell asleep. Hours or days, I’m not sure. I have to check the clock on my phone to orient myself for the day. It’s Saturday. 9:14 in the morning. None of this seems right, but there’s no point in arguing with it.

I sit up on the bed, and glance around the room. The chair at my desk is turned to face me, Sam’s shirt still hanging behind it. Sometimes, I like to pretend he’s in the bathroom, or grabbing some water downstairs, and is about to come back. Anytime now. It makes me feel less alone when we’re not on the phone together. I stretch my arms toward the ceiling. Sometimes my hair gets tangled in my sleep, so I run my fingers through to straighten it out. The smell of barley comes through, and I remember. The golden fields. Was that really last night? If I close my eyes, I can see it again. It’s strange to be back in my room with nothing but the memory of it. Like waking up from a dream, and having no one there to talk about it with.

Another world, another life, another thing to keep to myself.

I couldn’t sleep well. I had the same dream where I’m back at the bus station, looking for Sam again. It wasn’t quite as bad this time, but I’m still a bit shaken from it. I wish I could talk to someone about the dreams. Someone besides Sam, I mean. After everything I said to him last night, I don’t want to give him more to worry about. There are things I should probably keep inside.

I stay curled in bed until a third alarm goes off, reminding me to start the day. My mother left me half a pot of coffee downstairs. I finish two cups and a bowl of cereal. An hour later, I meet Oliver outside on the porch. He texted me this morning, inviting me on another walk. But we have a different destination this time. It’s Oliver’s idea. I wasn’t sure about it at first, but I said yes anyway. We’re on our way to Sam’s grave.

The clouds are out this afternoon. Oliver and I take the long route to avoid the crowds in town. When I tell him I’ve never visited Sam’s grave before, he doesn’t judge me. Maybe he already guessed this. Maybe he understands why I’m afraid to see it. As memorial hill rises into view, my stomach turns to knots. A few steps before we reach the iron gates, something stops me. Just like before …

Oliver looks back. “You alright there?”

“I just need a second—” I don’t know what else to say. I stare at the iron bars of the opened gate, wondering if this is a mistake. Don’t be scared, Julie. That’s not Sam up there. He’s still with you. You haven’t lost him yet.

“It’ll be okay. Here…” Oliver holds out a hand. “We’re going in together.”

I take a deep breath, squeezing his hand tight. Together we pass under the gates, and make our way up the hill. Oliver leads me through grass lined with grave markers and pinwheels. I step around them carefully, out of respect. I would have never been able to find Sam’s grave on my own. The grass seems to go on forever, spreading in every direction. It isn’t until Oliver stops and releases my hand that I realize we’re here. He steps around the stone marker, letting me see it better.

SAMUEL OBAYASHI

My body goes still. I read it to myself a few times.

He never liked the name Samuel. He would have wanted it to say Sam.

Sunflowers bloom from the vase in the center of the stone. They look fresh and beautiful, as if someone recently brought them here. A petal has fallen over his name, so I kneel down to brush it off. Then I notice something else in the vase.

A single white rose sticks out of the sunflowers. I touch it gently. It takes me a second to remember. “Is this one from you?” I ask Oliver.

“Yeah…”

My mind flashes back to that night we saw the movie together. “So this is where you went after…”

“I stopped by.”

I look at him. “How often do you come here? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Oliver shrugs. “Maybe too often.”

I take a few steps back and stare at the grass. The space beneath the gravestone. Is that where Sam is supposed to be? I imagine him sleeping peacefully down there, because I can’t picture him dead. This is surreal. I was just on the phone with him. I swallow hard and look at Oliver. “Should I … say something? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do…”

“You don’t have to. We can just hang out here for a little while.”

We sit on the grass together. The air feels eerily still, as if the wind doesn’t reach this place. I haven’t felt a single breeze since we entered. The trees around us are as inanimate as if they’re made of stone. I keep glancing over my shoulder. We seem to be the only two out here this afternoon.

Some time passes. Oliver picks at the grass in silence. He hasn’t said anything in a while. I wonder what he’s thinking about. “Do you usually come here alone?” I ask him.

“Usually.”

“And you just sit here like this?”

“Sometimes I change the water in the vase.”

I stare at his rose again. I wonder how many flowers he’s given Sam. “You really miss him, don’t you?”

“Probably no more than you.”

We both look at each other. Then he looks away, and things go quiet again.

“I think Sam would be happy to know you visit him,” I say after a while. “I think it would mean a lot to him.”

Oliver looks up. “You think so?”

“I do.”

After a moment, he lets out a tense breath. “I just don’t want him to feel alone, you know?” he says. “Like, what if he needs some company? I want him to know that someone’s here.”

A pain shoots through me. I wish I could call Sam and let him hear this. I wish I could tell Oliver about our calls, just to give him some sort of peace. What would he even think? Would he believe me?

In almost a whisper, Oliver asks a bit nervously, “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“Sometimes … I talk to him.”

“To Sam?”

Oliver nods.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, right here,” he says, gesturing at the grass where we sit. “Out loud, I guess. About normal things. Like stuff we used to talk about, you know?” Then he looks away, shaking his head. “It’s stupid, I know.”

If only he knew the truth. If only I could just tell him. “No, it isn’t,” I say to ease him. “I get it. If it makes you feel better, I tried calling him.”

“You mean, on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

For a second, I think he might ask me more about this, but he doesn’t. Though a part of me wishes he did. I wonder what my answer would have been. I watch Oliver pick at the grass again and feel a pang of guilt. Guilt for getting to talk with Sam, and not being able to tell anyone about it. Maybe I should. Just to know what happens next. Or for him to tell me this is real. Without looking up, Oliver asks me another question. “Can I tell you something else?”

I lean forward and listen.

“Remember what I asked you that one night? About what you’d say to Sam, if you had one more chance?”

“I do.”

“Do you want to know mine?”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

Oliver takes a deep breath and lets it out. His mouth opens and closes, as if something inside is stopping him. But eventually, he lets it out, like he’s been holding his breath for a long time.

“I would tell Sam I love him. That I always have.”

“I’m sure Sam loved you, too,” I say.

He looks at me. “But not the way he loved you.”

A silence.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Oliver says, shaking his head. “It’s better that I never told him. Maybe we’d stop being friends if I did.”

“Why would you say that?” I ask him. “You know Sam would be your friend no matter what.”

Oliver looks away again. “I always thought he might have felt the same way, too. That maybe there was something more between us, you know? Between me and Sam. Before you came here, I mean.” He drops his head. “I guess we’ll never know…” He goes quiet for a long time. When he wipes his eyes, and tears pour down, I realize he’s crying. Seeing him like this, my eyes start watering, too. I come behind, and put my arms around him. I rest my head on his back, and feel a pulse or heartbeat or I’m not sure what, but it’s someone else’s and not mine. Something I haven’t felt in a while.

“I wish he was still here,” Oliver says through tears.

“I know. I do, too.”

“You really think he’d still be my friend if I told him?”

“My honest answer?”

I feel him nod.

“I think Sam already knew.”

Judging from his silence, maybe he always wondered this. Maybe I’ve always wondered, too. About Oliver. Maybe this was the reason why he and I could never get close. Because of Sam. Because we both loved him in the same way. It’s the one thing we share now after he’s gone.

Out of nowhere, a breeze rolls through us and down the hill, sending pinwheels spinning as tree branches stretch to life for the first time since we got here. Oliver and I look up the hill as if expecting to see someone standing there, watching. But no one’s there. The sound of a hundred pinwheels turning is all we hear. Somehow, each one plays a different note, like wineglasses filled with water when you move your finger along the rim.

“Do you think that could be Sam?” Oliver whispers.

“It could be…” I move my ear in the direction of the wind, listening. “The song. It sounds familiar.”

Oliver tilts his head and listens, too. The two of us sit there in the grass in silence for a long time, trying to see if one of us can recognize the melody.

I walk Oliver home after we leave memorial hill. I wanted to make sure he was okay before heading to work. It’s my first shift since Sam died. I knew Tristan needed some time off, so I offered to come in this weekend. Since things are slow at the bookstore, there’s usually no need for the two of us to be here, so we rarely get a chance to work together. The only times we see each other are the moments we come in to switch shifts. It makes it hard to start our local book group we’ve been planning to promote at the store. We haven’t even decided on a first book yet. Tristan has been pushing The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but I said everyone’s already read it. “It’s a book you have to read at least twice,” he keeps saying.

Behind the counter, there’s a pin board where Tristan and I leave notes for each other, laying out which tasks have been taken care of, along with what needs to be done next. Sometimes, we leave personal messages. I find a blue note card pinned over the checklist.

Hope you’re feeling better.

Left your ticket in the first drawer.

—Tristan

I check the drawer. Inside a gold envelope, I find my ticket to the film festival next month. I almost forgot about this. Tristan has been working on this documentary for months. It’s his second time submitting something to the festival, so it’s wonderful to see things finally come together. A part of me is a little envious of him. He’s not even a senior yet but his creative work is being recognized. Meanwhile I haven’t even started my writing sample yet. I try not to think of things this way, and compare myself to others, but sometimes it’s hard not to.

I find a pen and write a message back to him.

Thanks again for filling in.

And can’t wait to see your film!

—Julie

It’s starting to rain outside, so there are fewer customers than usual. At least our online store seems to be doing better. Tristan gave me a list of book titles to find and package. Mr. Lee will pick them up on Monday and ship them off to new homes. I finish my tasks early, and even find time to sweep the store. Once the place is empty, I grab my journal and sit at my spot by the window. The sound of rain always puts me in a mood to write. Something about it that drowns out the rest of the world, clearing my mind. I think back to the lunch table yesterday, when Yuki asked me what I was writing about. I told her I was writing about Sam. But I’m not sure what it is I want to say yet. What do I want to tell the world about him? I imagine what some people might expect from me. Write about his death. About what happened. About what it meant to lose him. But that’s not something I want to focus on. Because I don’t want to remember Sam as a tragedy. I don’t want that to be his story. When people think about Sam, I want them to think of his best moments. I want them to remember him as a musician, staying up late on a school night, writing music on his guitar. I want them to know him as an older brother, building giant forts in his room. And I want them to remember us, and the last three years we spent together. How me met, our first kiss, all the reasons I fell in love with him. I want them to fall in love with Sam, too. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. Write down the memories of him. Memories of us. Tell our story. Once I decide this, moments from over the years flash across my mind. I spend the next hour jotting down the ones that mean the most to me. I keep writing until I completely lose track of time.

The wind chime jingles above the door, making me look up. I shut my journal as someone comes into the store.

“Yuki! What are you doing here?”

Yuki holds a lilac umbrella, folded down. Her hair is tied back with a blue ribbon. She looks around the store. “I remembered you were working today. I hope it’s okay I stopped by.”

“Of course. Let me take your umbrella—” I grab it from her and set it against the wall. “I’m so glad you’re here. It was starting to get lonely.”

Yuki smiles. “Then I’m glad I came.” There’s something in her other hand. A small plastic pouch dangles at her side, carrying a whiff of something savory.

“What do you have there?” I ask.

Yuki looks down at the bag, a little surprised. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says through a smile. “I brought us lunch.”

We finish our pickled cucumber and pork sandwiches by the window. I make hot water in the back room, and bring Yuki some tea. It’s still drizzling out, so she stays at the store with me to wait out the rain. A bus passes by the window. On the other side of the street, kids in raincoats are racing down the sidewalk, puddles splashing under their boots. I stare at my reflection in the window for a long time, until Yuki’s voice wakes me from my thoughts.

“Is something on your mind? You seem distracted.”

“I’m a bit tired, that’s all,” I say. “Haven’t been able to sleep much.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My dreams have been keeping me up lately.”

“May I ask what they’re about?”

I look at her. “Sam.”

Yuki nods knowingly. “I see. They must be bad dreams then, if they’re keeping you awake.”

“It’s the same dream,” I say. “Over and over again. I mean, they’re slightly different, but they always start in the same place.”

“And where is that?”

“At the bus station. The night Sam died.”

“And do they end the same?” she asks.

I look down at my hands. “I haven’t gotten there yet…”

Yuki takes this in. “I see.”

“I know,” I say. I lean my head against the window glass. “I just wish I knew what they meant…”

Yuki stares into her tea in thought. “You know … when my grandma passed away a few years ago, I had dreams about her, too. And they were all a bit similar,” she says. “In one of them, I dropped her favorite teapot and tried to put the pieces back together before she came in. In another one, I remember hiding my test scores from her. But she always found out. I remember the look on her face and how sad I kept making her. I didn’t want to go back to sleep. I didn’t want to upset her all over again…”

“Did the dreams eventually stop?” I ask.

Yuki nods. “Once I finally told my mom. She said something that helped me understand what they meant.”

I lean forward. “What did she say?”

Yuki takes a sip of her tea. “She said that, sometimes, dreams mean the opposite of what they show us. That we shouldn’t understand them exactly as they are. It can mean something in our life is out of balance. Or maybe we’re holding in too much. Especially when we lose someone, dreams show us the opposite of what it is we need to find balance again.”

“And what was that for you?”

“It took me a while to figure it out…” Yuki says into her tea. “I guess, all my life, I was worried about disappointing her. I just needed to remember how much she loved me. That she always had, no matter what happened.” She looks at me. “Maybe you need to seek the opposite, too. Figure out how to bring balance into your life.”

I think about this. “And how do I do that? Find the opposite…”

“I’m not really sure,” Yuki says regretfully. “It’s different for everyone.”

I stare out the window again, unsure of myself.

Yuki touches my shoulder. “But sometimes they’re just dreams,” she says. “And they might mean nothing at all. So don’t worry too much, alright?”

“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “I just wish I could get a regular night’s sleep…”

Yuki looks away in thought. “You know, I might have something that could help,” she says, setting down her tea. “Come…”

I follow Yuki to the counter where she left her bag. She opens it, searching through the pockets. When she finds what she’s looking for, she turns around and places something in the palm of my hand.

“Here…”

“What’s this?” I say, turning it in my hand. “A crystal?”

Pristine white, pearly, and translucent, it almost glows from within, giving off its own light.

“It’s selenite,” Yuki says. “My mother gave it to me. It’s supposed to bring you luck and protection. It also wards away negative energy. Maybe it can protect you from bad dreams.”

I run my fingers over it. “How does it work?”

“You just carry it with you,” she says softly. “It’s named after the moon goddess, you know. You see”—she turns the crystal over in my hand, revealing its sides—“selenite is said to hold a drop of light that dates back to the beginning of the universe. People believe it’s connected to something outside of our world…”

I study the faces of the crystal. It feels warm in my hand, glinting back at me like moonlight. “You really believe in it?”

“I like to think it’s protected me,” Yuki says, nodding. “Now it’s yours, though. It’s also a bit fragile, so be careful.”

I hold the crystal close to me.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“I hope this brings you some peace,” Yuki says. “I have a feeling you’ll need it.”

It’s still raining by the time Yuki leaves the store. I haven’t seen a customer in hours, so I decide to close the place up early. At home, I help my mom make dinner. There’s this Parmesan from a specialty store an hour away that she buys, and it pairs well with mushroom and spinach pasta. High-quality cheese is one of the few luxuries allowed in our household. My mom always says, “It’s an investment.” I never argue with her on this.

I set the table as my mother pulls the breadsticks from the air fryer. The news is playing in the living room with the sound muted. My mother likes to leave the TV on throughout the day. She says it makes the house feel less empty. Usually during dinner, my mother likes to share strange theories her students come up with in her classes. Like the one where we’re all living in a video game controlled by a twelve-year-old girl on her brother’s computer. But tonight is quieter than usual. Like we both have something on our minds. “You got a letter in the mail today,” she says after a while. “I left it on the counter.”

“I saw it,” I say. It’s an acceptance letter from Central Washington University. I already got the email a few days ago.

“Well what did it say?”

“I was accepted.”

My mother stares at me, beaming. “Julie, why didn’t you tell me? We should celebrate.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I say, twirling the pasta with my fork. “Everyone gets in there.” Central is not the most competitive. As long as you have decent enough grades, you get in. It’s the decision from Reed I’m still waiting on.

My mother watches me pick at my plate. “I know it isn’t your first choice, Julie…” she says. “But you should still be proud. Central Washington is a perfectly good school, even if you might not think so. I mean, I teach there, after all. Don’t write it off so fast.”

I look at her. “You’re right. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…” I sigh. “I don’t know if I want to spend another four years in Ellensburg. That wasn’t my original plan. That’s all.”

“That wasn’t any of our plans,” my mother says, maybe more to herself. The table goes quiet again. “But I get it … Things haven’t been so great around here. Especially recently. Especially for you.” She stares at the table for a moment, as if in thought. “Maybe it’s a bit selfish of me, wanting to have you around a little longer. I know you’re not going to be here forever, Julie. But … I was hoping we’d at least spend some time together before you graduated. Before you left.”

“I haven’t gone anywhere yet,” I say. “I’m still here.”

“I know…” she says, releasing a breath. “But I don’t get to see you too much. I know it isn’t your fault … but you’ve been hard to reach lately. This is the first time you and I sat down for dinner in two weeks. I just feel a little less … connected to you. But maybe that’s just me.”

I stare at my phone on the table, then back at my mom. Has it really been that long since we had dinner together? After Sam died, I brought my meals up to my room. And since we’ve been connected again, I been spending all my time with him. I was gone all day yesterday. And the day before. A wave of guilt hits me as I think of what to say. I used to talk to her about everything. But I can’t open up about Sam. I can’t tell her what’s happening. “I’m sorry,” is all I can say. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“That’s alright,” my mother says, smiling a little. “We’re spending time together now. Thank you … for having dinner with me.”

I stare at my plate again, making a mental note to do this with her more often.

After dinner, I help clear the table and head upstairs. As much as I want to call Sam, I should catch up on schoolwork. I make some progress on an essay for Gill’s class that isn’t due until next week, and finish an art history assignment. My mind seems to have cleared up, and I find it easier to focus. Maybe it’s the crystal. Yuki said to always keep it with me, so I set it near Sam’s bookend I keep on my desk as I work. I like to look at it from time to time. It makes me feel protected.

Sam told me I could call him sometime tonight. Since we spent an entire day on the phone yesterday, tonight’s call can’t be too long. I don’t mind this. I want to hear his voice again, even if it’s only for a few minutes.

Since my mother is in one of her intense vacuuming modes, I decide to make the call outside on the porch. The rain sounds like tiny pebbles hitting the roof. During past rainstorms, Sam and I used to sit out here together, watching for lightning. From the looks of it, there might be some tonight. It’s a bit chilly out, so I put on his plaid shirt. I dial Sam’s number.

Every time his voice comes through the line, it’s as if time stops, just for us. “That sound…” He pauses to listen. “Where are you calling from?”

“Outside. On the porch step.”

“Missing the fresh air?”

I recall the fields from yesterday, and smile to myself. “Among other things,” I say. “And I just needed a break from my desk. Thought I would call you. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. I miss you infinity.”

Sam’s voice is warm against my ear. I wish things could stay like this. I wish we could talk forever.

“Tell me about your day,” he says. “How are things at the bookstore? How’s Mr. Lee?”

“It was nice to be back. Feels like home, you know?” I say. “And Mr. Lee is fine. He gave me this journal the other day. I forgot to tell you. It’s almost too beautiful to write in.”

“So you’re writing again?”

“I’m starting to. Today, at least.” That was why he brought me to the fields. To inspire me again. I wanted to surprise him with this, but I’m no good at holding things in. “Actually, I’m writing about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Sam laughs. “What’s it about?”

“You know, I’m still figuring that out,” I admit. “I just started! But I’m really enjoying it. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten into that rhythm of writing, you know? I want it to be about us, though. Our story, I mean. I started writing down some of our memories. Little vignettes. I just have to figure out how to stitch them together. Into something meaningful.”

“I’m glad you found your rhythm. And glad I made it into one of your stories. Finally.” He laughs. “What’s this for again?”

I let out a breath. “I’m not sure yet. I was just getting into the practice of things, you know? But if it turns out well, I might use it as my writing sample for Reed. Apparently, they need to look at one before I’m allowed into their creative writing classes. Not that I’ve been accepted yet, but I don’t want to get into that right now. Anyway, who knows? If it ends up being really good, maybe I can try to get it published or something. It’s something to work toward, you know? Get one of my stories out there. Like Tristan.”

“What about Tristan?”

“I forgot to mention. His documentary was accepted to the film festival.”

“Oh.”

“He invited me to the premiere.”

A silence.

“That’s nice … For both of you.”

I turn my head to the side, trying to read his tone. “Both of us? I haven’t accomplished anything. I barely have an idea for a story.”

“You still have time, though. To write it. And leave something behind. I wish I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I wish I had time to finish things, too, you know? Leave on mark on the world or something…”

“What did you want to finish?”

Sam lets out a breath. “It doesn’t really matter anymore, Jules … There’s no point in talking about it.”

“But Sam—”

“Please. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

An ache of guilt goes through me. I thought sharing this would make him happy. I’m writing a story about us, after all. I didn’t expect this to bring up feelings he won’t even talk about. So I change the subject, just as he asked.

“I saw Oliver today. He really misses you.”

“Oliver?” Sam’s voice brightens at the name. “I’ve been thinking about him lately. How has he been?”

“He brings you flowers,” I tell him. “I found out he sits by your grave sometimes, to keep you company. He really is a great friend.”

“We were best friends. Since forever.”

“He said he loves you…” I say.

“I love him, too. He knows that.”

For a second, I think about asking him what he means. Ask whether or not there was something more to them than I knew. But I decide not to, because maybe it shouldn’t matter. At least, not anymore.

Sam asks, “Is this the first time you’ve seen him since?”

“No,” I say. “We’ve seen each other a few times, actually. We even saw a movie the other day. It was a musical. It happened out of the blue.”

“I always told you. You guys have a lot more in common than you know.”

“I’m realizing that. Guess I should have listened sooner.”

“Does that mean you’re friends now?”

“I think so. At least, I’m hopeful about it.”

“I’m glad you guys finally gave each other a chance,” Sam says.

I’m glad we did, too. If only it didn’t take losing you for it to happen.

Rain continues to tap against the patio roof. I’ll have to head back inside soon. Before I do, there’s a question I want to ask. Something that’s been burning in my mind for the past few days.

“What is it?” Sam asks.

“It’s about our calls. About having to keep this a secret. I was wondering, what would happen if I told someone?”

“If I’m honest, Julie,” Sam says. “I’m not completely sure. But I have this feeling it might affect our connection.”

I think about this. “Is there a chance nothing would happen?”

“Maybe,” he says. “I guess we won’t know until it does. But there’s a chance it could break our connection forever. I’m not sure if we should risk it.”

I swallow hard. The thought of this sends a chill through me.

“Then I won’t tell anyone. I’ll keep this a secret. I don’t want to lose you. Not this soon.”

“I don’t want to lose you, either.”

A bright light flashes in the sky, followed by the sound of a distant rumble.

“What was that?” Sam asks.

“I think a storm is coming.”

“Lightning?”

“Sounds like it.”

When you live along the Cascade Range, occasional lightning storms are the only things that bring some life to the sleeping towns.

“I wish I could see,” Sam says.

“They sound far away.”

Another flash of lightning goes off, rupturing the sky for a split second.

“Remind me what they look like?” he asks.

“Like little cracks in the universe. And another world is peeking through.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what they are.”

“And maybe you’re on the other side.”

Another flash, another rumble.

“Can I listen?” Sam asks.

I put the phone on speaker and hold it up.

We listen to the storm for a long time.

Another flash, another rumble.

“You’re right,” he says, “It does sound far away.”

I stay there with him, on the phone, all the way until the storm ends.