Living Proof, стр. 35

“I’m not drinking for now.” He turned around and receded into his apartment, apparently intending them to follow. Megan shot Arianna a look of curiosity.

“He doesn’t trust himself with liquor when he gets stressed,” Arianna whispered. “He’s got a past.”

They followed him through a narrow hallway that opened into a living room perched in the sky, bound by a sheet of curved glass. There were no lights on, and yet the room glowed with the light of nearby buildings, like a moon collecting the radiance of a hundred suns. The most brilliant was the Empire State Building straight ahead; alit in red, white, and blue, it was enough to make even the most jaded citizen feel patriotic. Glancing at it, Arianna wished she could feel the full force of that gale of pride in being an American, but her patriotism had shriveled like the myelin around her nerve cells, and for the same reason.

“Your view is stunning,” Megan remarked.

“Distracts from the clutter.” He sat in a well-worn chair next to a table littered with yellow legal pads and textbooks. Chinese takeout boxes lay steaming on various scraps of paper. Bits of rice and sauce were splattered on his notes like haphazard punctuation marks.

“Are we interrupting your dinner?” Arianna asked. “We can go—”

He shook his head, wiping up the fallen pieces of food. “Sit.”

She and Megan sat on a two-seater couch facing the 270-degree view. It gave them the convenience of not staring at one another during the silence that followed.

“Stiff tongues, eh?” Arianna said. “I can prescribe something for that, you know. It’s not a condition you have to live with.”

Megan laughed a little. At her feet, a raggedy gray towel lay in a heap. “What’s that for?”

“Oh, nothing,” Sam said, getting up to grab it. “Just getting cleaned up before going back.”

Arianna frowned. “You’re going back tonight? Don’t tell me you’ve started sleeping there?”

“So what. I got a cot at Kmart. There’s a sink and toilet.” He flashed her a challenging look.

She knew better than to argue. “So any improvement since Sunday?”

He cleared his throat. “We’re getting low on embryos. I wish we could use yours again,” he said to Megan. “Those were as robust as they come.”

She grinned. “I’m glad. But Arianna says I can’t donate again.”

Arianna shook her head. “No, your ovaries need a rest. They were sensitive to the hormones.”

Sam hadn’t answered her question. She wondered if he had purposely ignored her. Of course, she decided. It was easier than confronting her with the grim reality. She looked at the patches of light scattered up and down the neighboring skyscrapers. Of all the people inside those rooms, how many like her were thinking of death?

“When are you bringing a new batch?” Sam demanded.

“On Friday,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got donors lined up for at least the next five weeks.”

“So interest is still good?” Megan asked.

“Better than usual. I got back in touch with some of the girls from the CPR club, Sam.”

“Oh yeah?”

The CPR club, or the Coalition to Protect Researchers, was a group of about fifty angry Columbia students who united to protest the DEP’s formation. Arianna, then a sophomore, had taken on a leading role in recruiting members. Most had been Sam’s students.

“You might even remember some of them, Sam.”

He shrugged, his expression hard. “I wasn’t paying attention to much back then except one thing.”

“By the way,” Arianna said quickly, “did I tell you I’m going to Long Island on Saturday for dinner with Trent’s family?”

Megan smiled strangely at her. “You told me earlier.”

“Who is that kid, anyways?” Sam scowled. “Is he the one who phones you?”

“Yes. He’s this sweet writer I met at a book signing.” She paused. “I know the timing is terrible, but we hit it off really well.”

“He doesn’t know?” Sam’s tone was snide: Tell me you didn’t tell him.

“Not about you.”

“About you?”

“I had to.” She pursed her lips. “But we’re going to enjoy the present together.”

Sam grunted and turned to Megan. “Have you met him?”

“Not yet. I want to.”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, wrinkling his overgrown eyebrows. “Men these days are swine. In my day, there were gentlemen, but not anymore—the feminists won’t allow it.”

Arianna raised her eyebrows. “My God, it’s uncanny, Sam. You really are just like my father.”

“What?” He seemed taken aback.

“In a good way,” she reassured. “He was the best man I knew.” She smiled. “And the most politically incorrect.”

“You’re not planning to tell that kid, right?”

“He’s no kid.”

“Well?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t? Or you aren’t?”

Arianna swallowed, wondering if she knew the answer herself.

“Who’s she?” Megan interjected, pointing at a picture frame on the wall above Sam’s head. Arianna glanced at it: a brunette was smiling playfully, as if sharing an inside joke with the photographer.

Sam did not turn his head. His voice came out strained. “That’s my wife, Charlotte.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Megan murmured.

Sam stayed still, but Arianna could see an ominously bulging vein at his temple.

“You didn’t tell her?” he said.

Arianna felt helpless knowing what was about to unfold, as it did every so often, but empathy kept her from trying to prevent it. He needed, maybe more than anything, a sensitive listener—someone to shoulder the burden of the pain if only for a few minutes.

“No, Sam, I don’t discuss your personal life.”

“Well,” he said brusquely to Megan, “let me fill you in.”

He rose and began to pace, barely looking at them. “Charlotte had diabetes since she was a girl, the worst affliction that could happen to a high-spirited kid like her. The day I met her in high school, it was after she had passed out in the hall from eating candy. I was the one who took her to the nurse. She thought she was invincible. But she still had to give herself five shots a day and check her blood sugar nonstop. Her arms were like leather from being pricked all the time. But that girl was the best sport there ever was.