A Widow's Awakening Page 2

  “There she is,” he says.

  We stare up at her then look at each other.

  “I still can’t wait for us to go to the real place,” I say.

  Sam gives me the look—the one that means “that’s enough.”

  Inside, we stroll along the replicated streets of Manhattan, past steam rising from pretend manhole covers, to a bar where a crowd of people has gathered. Since Sam is over six feet, he can see over most of the heads.

  “Oh, you’ll love this,” he says, pulling me to the side for a better view.

  There’s a guy singing and playing a piano as the patrons gather around, humming along and having a hoot.

  Then I hear myself say, “I wonder if this is like a real bar in Greenwich Village?”

  “Regardless, this is pretty cool.” Now there is an edge to Sam’s voice.

  “Yeah but…”

  “We’re in Vegas,” he says. “Let’s appreciate this.”

  I turn to him. “Don’t you want to go to New York anymore?”

  “Of course I do, but this is great in itself.” Sam sweeps his arm across the scene as if waving a magic wand. “If you can’t appreciate this, then what makes you think you’ll enjoy the real New York?”

  “C’mon, Sammy, lighten up! What would you most want to do in Manhattan?”

  He thinks a moment. “Well…remember how in The Catcher in the Rye, Holden loved to sit on a park bench in Central Park and watch the ducks in the lagoon?”

  I smile at Sam’s use of a literary reference as he’s not much of a reader. “Yeah.”

  “That’s what I’d do.”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding my head. “That’d be cool.”

  Back on the strip again, he asks if I’m ready to go back to our own hotel. I shake my head. “Let’s go check out the pyramid.”

  “Are you sure? It’s already a really long walk back…”

  He’s right. And when we do finally begin the homeward trek, after a loop through the pyramid, our feet are aching and we’re both irritable. On the way, we pass dozens of men slapping sleazy photographs of teenage prostitutes and strippers against their thighs.

  “There’s some authenticity for you,” Sam remarks.

  “What are they doing?”

  “What do you think they’re doing, Adri?”

  “I know that. But why are they slapping the pamphlets against their legs?”

  “Because it’s obviously against the law to verbally solicit customers.”

  “And pimping out teenagers isn’t?”

  We walk in silence until the erupting volcano outside our hotel comes into view.

  Sam sees it and laughs. “Go big or go home.”

  I look at him. “What?”

  “I was just thinking how Vegas is such a ‘go big or go home’ kinda place.”

  Tonight, we have the lustful, in-front-of-the-hotel-room-mirror kind of sex couples tend to have on vacation, away from the pressures of daily life. This time, I am on top.

  IN THE morning, I awake to find Sam has gone downstairs and brought us back coffee and muffins for breakfast in our room. We sit at the table in the corner, looking out the window at the dormant volcano.

  I turn to Sam. “Thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Everything. This is awesome.”

  As we leave Vegas in our convertible—top down—I remark: “That was quite somethin’, huh?”

  Sam nods.

  “All that stuff in the middle of the desert…”

  He nods again.

  I look over at him. “But now it’s quiet time?”

  “Bingo,” he says with a wink. I put a sock in it for awhile.

  “How are you doing over there?” he asks, half an hour later.

  “I’m getting kinda hot.”

  Laughing, he pulls over and puts the top up.

  WHEN WE check into our hotel in Tusayan, the clerk tells us the sunset at the Grand Canyon is at 6:28 p.m. so if we want to catch it, we better get our tails in gear. Back into the convertible we hop and speed toward the canyon, arguing over whether or not we should take a helicopter ride.

  “I’ll call them on the cell phone, Sam.”

  “We already know it’s gonna cost too much.”

  “But you want to go.”

  “Adri, chill…it’s no big deal.”

  “At least let me phone and find out.”

  “We already know it’s gonna be five hundred bucks.”

  “That was from Vegas,” I say, punching in the number. Then it hits me: isn’t being at the Grand Canyon enough? I end the call. “I just thought seeing the Grand Canyon from a helicopter would be amazing.”

  “Have you ever been up in one?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “It’s great. It’s like you get to see…a bigger piece of the picture.”

  AROUND THE next corner, patiently waiting millions of years, is the Grand Canyon. Sam pulls into a turnoff and switches off the engine. We walk around to the front of the car and stand side by side, staring out over the landscape.

  “This isn’t the place they told us to see the sunset,” I say.

  He sighs. “I know. We’ll keep going.”

  We get back in the car and follow the instructions to the best place to watch the sunset, which is right beside the gift shop. I ask Sam what time it is.

  He glances at his watch. “Six-twenty.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Inside, the salesgirl is ringing in two Grand Canyon coffee mugs when Sam appears beside me.

  “They’re for our moms,” I explain.

  “Just because we’re on vacation doesn’t mean we have to buy everyone presents.”

  I roll my eyes. “Relax. It’s only a few bucks.”

  “But we have to be really careful with our money. You know that. And couldn’t you have at least waited ’til after the sunset?”

  The girl wraps up the mugs, sticks them in a bag and hands it to me. I want to throw the damn things into the canyon.

  Back outside, we aren’t alone. We choose a vacant rock a couple of feet from some moron loudly reciting poetry to his much younger—and clearly embarrassed—female companion. Sam and I exchange looks.

  “It’s Sven!” I whisper. Sven is the name of my imaginary and supposedly ideal lover. Mythical Sven loves to hike, ski and read by the fire. He spends his day scaling mountains, listening to me talk and, apparently, reciting poetry as the sun sets over the Grand Canyon. Thank God I didn’t get the husband I asked for when I was a teenager.

  “Then that must be Sasha,” Sam replies, nodding to the woman. Sam’s imaginary and supposedly ideal lover goes by the name of Sasha. Mythical Sasha is a porn star with big hooters and no voice. All she wants to do is have sex all day, sometimes with other women. I’m about the furthest thing from a Sasha, except for the sex—but with just the two of us, thanks.

  The poet finally shuts up so all two hundred of us can enjoy the sunset in peace.

  AFTER A dinner of fajitas and beer back in Tusayan, we stumble back to our hotel room and Sam immediately races into the bathroom.

  “Um,” he says, when he finally comes out again, “would you mind if I slept in my own bed tonight?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just that I’m really full and my stomach hurts…”

  For as long as I’ve known Sam, he’s always had problems with his digestive system. “Sam, it’s OK. I understand.”

  Still, it is strange waking up in the morning and seeing him in the other bed.

  “I was hoping you’d sleep in,” he says.

  “No way! We gotta see the sunrise.”

  By 5:30 a.m., we’re back in the convertible and make it to the Canyon just in time to see the first light appear on the horizon. Once the sun is fully in the sky, I suggest we take a walk. Sam nods but I can tell he isn’t into it. He’ll want to be hitting the road since we have an eight-hour drive ahead of us, whereas I want to cram as much as possible into the t
ime we have left. Seeing the Grand Canyon isn’t enough; it would be better from a helicopter. The sunset isn’t good enough; I have to see the sunrise too. If I had my way, I’d drag Sam halfway down into the canyon, just to experience that as well.

  We’re five minutes along the path when we come to a large open rock face. I walk quickly toward the drop-off.

  “Adri!” Sam yells. “Don’t go so close to the edge.”

  I stop and turn to him. “I’m nowhere near it.”

  “Yes, you are. Don’t be stupid!”

  “Fine.” I sit down, still a good three feet from the edge. “Can you take my picture here then?”

  He takes my photo, then turns and starts back toward the car. Our walk is over.

  The drive back to LA. is long and hot and neither of us says much. I try to keep the number of top up versus top down requests to a minimum. It’s me who finally breaks the silence. It usually is. “Do you believe in evolution?” I ask.

  He continues staring straight ahead. “No.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I snap. “Evolution isn’t something you ‘believe’ or ‘don’t believe’—it’s a scientific fact.”

  “Then why did you ask the question?” He reaches over and turns on the radio.

  We don’t speak again until the first sign for San Bernardino appears. “That’s where that pilot I told you about lives,” Sam says. “The one who flies a police helicopter. He said to call him when I was down here, and he’d take me up for a ride.”

  “No way! Are you gonna call him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this is our vacation and I don’t want to do anything work-related.”

  I shift to get a better look at Sam. Passing on the chance to meet up with a cop from another country is strange enough behavior for him. Not seizing the opportunity to go up in a police helicopter is unexplainable. Sam eats, sleeps and breathes police work.

  “But why?”

  “Because I know you want to get to Knott’s Berry Farm for dinner.”

  Granted, I’d heard that the dinner specials at Knott’s Berry Farm were not to be missed—and had insisted we wait until then to eat dinner. But by the time we sit down in the restaurant booth, Sam’s ready to throttle me. “My wife has dragged me here all the way from the Grand Canyon,” he tells our waiter.

  “Ah,” replies the waiter. “I promise you it will be worth the wait.”

  He didn’t have to sit in a convertible, driving through the sweltering desert heat with a bitchy wife wearing a leopard print scarf, baseball cap and Jackie O sunglasses.

  I watch Sam devour the basketful of warm biscuits, three pieces of fried chicken, mashed potatoes with thick gravy and kernel corn. Also down the hatch goes a gallon of boysenberry punch and a huge piece of boysenberry pie.

  Back at our hotel, Sam runs to the bathroom, so I put our leftovers into the mini-fridge, climb into the king-size bed and fall fast asleep.

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 22ND, 2000

  TODAY IS Sam’s friend’s wedding at Disneyland, the original reason for our trip. I put on a black dress.

  “You look beautiful,” he says, as we’re leaving our hotel room.

  “Thank you.” I stand on my toes to kiss him. “You’re rather dashing yourself.”

  In the foyer, the desk clerk waves us over to the reception desk. “You’re going to Disneyland today, right?”

  “Yup!” I say. “Any tips?”

  “Use the FastPass,” he advises, “and find a good spot to watch the fireworks.”

  “Oh yeah?” says Sam, clearly not as enthused as I.

  The clerk nods. “You don’t want to miss Tinkerbell flying through the sky…it’s actually pretty neat how they do it.”

  Sam smiles politely. I laugh.

  AT THE luncheon reception after the ceremony, Sam and I sit with the photographer and his family. I listen as Sam asks the teenagers questions about their lives and career plans. After the reception, we head into the hotel bathrooms to change into more comfortable clothes. When I come out of the ladies’ room, Sam’s waiting for me, wearing a white T-shirt with his fuzzy blue vest over top, khaki shorts and white runners. He crams my shoes and clothes into the knapsack and puts it on his shoulders. “Let’s roll.”

  I almost have to jog to keep up with him. “We’ve only got one day,” he explains, “so we have to coordinate our moves.”

  “Couldn’t we come back tomorrow?”

  Sam smiles but I can see right through him. He knows that if he can make today fabulous for me, he won’t have to spend a second day—and a Saturday yet—at Disneyland.

  “Where are we headed?” I ask, a little out of breath as I trot along beside him.

  “You said you wanted to go to Splash Mountain so let’s get that reserved first.”

  “Geez. It’s like you’ve come up with a…whaddya call it? An operating plan?”

  “An Ops plan,” he corrects me. “And yes, I have.”

  After we reserve Splash Mountain, he relaxes so I ask him about his questions to the teens at lunch. “You seemed genuinely interested in them,” I say.

  “I was.”

  “It’s just that you’re so negative about kids now.”

  “I’m not an asshole, Adri.”

  “I know.”

  “I liked them. They were polite and seemed like they actually gave a damn.”

  I sigh. “There are a lot of decent people out there.”

  “Yeah well, I just don’t happen to deal with the good ones on a regular basis.”

  WHEN WE arrive at Splash Mountain at our scheduled time, we walk through the express lane to the front of the line, proud as peacocks at our FastPass planning finesse. At the very top of the ride, there’s a section where the little log cars float along in the water as large stuffed chipmunks sing to each other the song, “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”

  We’re bobbing along in our log car when Sam puts his arm around my shoulders and watches me watching the cheerful chipmunks. I feel so happy and safe, like I’m a kid again—I mean before I knew my parent’s marriage wasn’t going to make it.

  Then the tranquility ends as our log car drops into the waiting pool of water.

  “Did you feel that?” I ask Sam, as we’re climbing out of the log car.

  “What? The drop?”

  “No—at the top, before we dropped…it was like magic or somethin’.”

  One eyebrow goes up. “You wanna go again then?”

  “Nah.” I give him a little wave of my hand. “It’s never the same the second time.”

  So instead, we race around Disneyland like two oversized kids; stuffing our faces with popcorn and hotdogs, jumping on and off rides, and smugly passing exhausted parents wiping ice cream off their screaming children’s faces.

  In the late afternoon, we find a place to watch the parade and hoot and holler as our favourite characters walk by. I snap a picture of Sam with Grumpy Dwarf and tease him about the likeness. As the last float goes by, we somehow end up in the parade, laughing and waving at the crowd as we walk along.

  After dinner, Sam secures us a prime spot behind a garbage can to watch the fireworks. “This way,” he says, “nobody can stand directly in front of us.”

  We’re waiting for the show to begin when Sam squeezes my hand and nods toward our left. “Check it out. It’s the Pooh family.”

  Sure enough, there’s mom, dad and two little kids, all sporting yellow fuzzy jackets with Winnie the Pooh crests. We watch their stroller and sippy-cup antics until a woman’s voice comes over the loudspeaker: “Believe…there’s magic in the air…”

  I smile at Sam and then kapow! The show begins in an explosion of light.

  But just before Tinkerbell descends from the sky, Pooh Grandma suddenly appears to my right. I hadn’t noticed her earlier but the matching yellow fuzzy reveals her heritage. She looks at me and says, “Excuse me. I have to get by.”

  I take a step back to let her pass and Sam does
the same. But when she’s in front of him, she falls and the back of her head hits the concrete. Sam immediately kneels down to help her as I run into the crowd, arms waving and yelling for an ambulance.

  When I return, Sam’s still kneeling on the pavement, speaking into her ear. The woman is breathing, and her eyes are open but she’s motionless, staring blankly into the night. As I watch Sam comfort her, it occurs to me that he can’t just turn off being a police officer. The paramedics and security arrive and after Sam gives his witness statement, we walk away. I ask him if he thinks she’ll be OK.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, she really hit the back of her head hard.”

  “Did she trip?”

  He shrugs. “Either that or fainted.”

  “Things like that aren’t supposed to happen at the Happiest Place on Earth.”

  Sam doesn’t say anything.

  “You probably want to go now, huh?” I ask.

  To my surprise, he shakes his head. “No. You?”

  I grin. “No.”

  He takes my hand. “Star Tours?”

  “Yup.”

  We race back to the Star Tours Flight Simulator, walk through the empty lineup to the entrance then hop on the ride.

  “Again?” I ask, once the ride’s finished.

  Sam winks. “I thought it was never the same the second time around?”

  “It’s not. It’s better.”

  After our last tour through the stars, we head over to Sleeping Beauty’s Castle and climb on a ride clearly intended for little kids. I turn to Sam, squished beside me in the tiny pink cart. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

  “Me neither.”

  Around midnight, we’re making our way toward the exit and come across the old-fashioned merry-go-round. I look at Sam. “Whaddya reckon?”

  “Last one?”

  “Deal.”

  Sam chooses a white horse and climbs on. I hop on my horse, pull my camera out of the knapsack then lean back. “OK, Greekie…gimme a smile.”

  Gripping the brass pole, Sam smiles broadly, and I snap the photo.