From her position in bed, Emily stared across the room at the heart that Sam had given her. It was mounted on the cream-coloured wall. The heart was made of so many pieces. But they fit together in such a way that, from a distance, it looked like one piece of gnarled wood.
Emily shut her eyes and allowed herself for just a moment to hear Sam’s guitar, and she could suddenly see him that last night walking away into the dark. And he had Riddle at his side.
She knew that if Riddle fell into the water, Sam would have gone to save him. She knew that. He would have done anything for his little brother.
How do you get over someone who changed the way you see the world? She had no idea. But she did know one thing: you don’t just randomly replace him with someone else.
After seventy-two hours and many, many, many inquiries from many different people, Riddle said that his mother was named Debbie Sweetcake Bell and that she worked in a hospital.
But he didn’t know her phone number.
There were no hits on the internet for Debbie Sweetcake Bell, but when they went online and searched Debbie Bell and the word hospital, it was discovered that she was employed by Sacred Heart Medical Services.
It was midmorning on Friday when Randall Monte, working the admitting desk in the ER, placed the caller on hold and went to find Debbie.
She was with a patient, but Debbie could tell by Randall’s face that the call was important. It wasn’t until they were in the corridor heading to a phone that Randall told her that it was someone from the police department in Utah on the line.
Debbie felt her pulse double. And she was an expert in heart rate and adrenaline surges.
Were they calling her to say that they’d located bodies? She punched the line to take the call and with what she hoped was a steady voice said, ‘This is Debbie Bell . . .’
A voice on the other end of the line responded, ‘My name is Henry Wertheimer, and I’m calling from the Emery County sheriff’s department . . .’
Debbie wasn’t breathing. The man had stopped talking midsentence. Just say it. Bad news needs to flow quickly. Didn’t they give these people any trauma/crisis instruction? Finally the man took a breath – or was it a swallow of a cup of coffee? – and continued, ‘. . . And we have a boy here who was found in the Manti-La Sal National Forest, and he says that he’s your son . . .’
Debbie’s hand was trembling now. But she managed to say evenly, ‘He’s alive?’
The voice continued, ‘Yes, ma’am. He’s here, and he’s very much alive. And he wants you.’
Debbie felt her knees start to buckle. She reached out and steadied herself against the wall. She could hear the shuffling sound of the receiver changing hands and then Riddle’s voice, very low, in what was a hoarse, wheezy whisper, said, ‘I tried to take care of Sam. I tried . . .’
And then Debbie could tell that he was crying.
And now she was crying. And she was talking and crying as she said, ‘Of course you did. I’m coming there, sweetheart. Right now. I’m coming to get you. Right now, Riddle.’
She had a son. His name was Jared. But when the man on the phone had said they’d found a boy in the Manti-La Sal National Forest, and he’d said he was her son, she knew that this was also now true.
And she also knew that somewhere, deep in her soul, she had never stopped believing she would see him again.
37
Debbie Bell’s first call was to her husband. Together they made a plan, and part of that was an agreement not to tell Emily the news until they had everything sorted out. She was going to the prom with Bobby Ellis the next day. There was no reason to derail that. Finding Riddle was a miracle, but it would of course point out the obvious. Sam was gone.
Being the head nurse of an emergency room in a large hospital means that you understand rules and regulations. And that means you speak the language of bureaucracy.
Debbie’s second call was to Detective Sanderson. She knew that the state of Utah would not release Riddle into her custody without documentation. Sanderson couldn’t believe that the authorities hadn’t identified the boy right away. But it was typical. They were looking for two kids. And one had turned up. He’d been with three adults. Those people were now the focus of the investigation.
The detective reminded Debbie that they had found the inhaler she got for Riddle at the Liberty Motel. The inhaler was checked out in her name. This meant that she had dispensed medicine to him. That fact was a good thing.
After Debbie arranged to have her shifts covered for the next three days, she paged Dr Howard, who signed out two more Proventil inhalers for Riddle. And then Debbie remembered something else that could be used as evidence of prior association.
Debbie had filled out preliminary forms with the school district in an attempt to register Riddle and Sam. The forms were incomplete, but they had been recorded as received at the end of April. Debbie could get a letter from the woman in the Board of Education office verifying this.
She and Tim would have to petition the juvenile court for legal guardianship, but she believed, given the circumstances, that they could be granted temporary custody.
And so Debbie made copies of their income taxes (to show their ability to care for Riddle). She took pictures that Riddle had drawn while at their house. She took her latest letter of commendation from the hospital, and then she drove home, where Tim was now waiting.
As quickly as she could manage, she stuffed clothes into an overnight bag. She gathered together a thermos of just-brewed coffee, a turkey sandwich, a bag of oranges and a slice of banana cake with buttercream frosting that she wrapped in plastic and placed into tupperware.
The cake was not for her.
Debbie Bell kissed her husband goodbye and told him that she loved him. She then drove away from the house as anxious as she ever remembered being.
She just hoped that, in the next eight-hour drive, she didn’t get a speeding ticket.
Detective Sanderson, prompted by Debbie Bell’s call, spent the rest of the morning on his computer. He was assembling the paperwork needed for her to take Riddle across the state lines.
Without his help, the boy would be placed in foster care until social workers and the state of Utah could make a determination regarding his welfare.
But Detective Sanderson, who considered this to be a miracle, knew where the boy belonged.
The veteran driver Juan Ramos leaned into the popping microphone of the bus PA system and announced, ‘Las Vegas, Spanish for ‘the meadows’. Hard to believe, but this place was once naturally a green spot. Enjoy, folks. And watch your step.’
Sam had been through this city many times with his father and Riddle, and now as he stood on the scorching-hot blacktop of the bus depot parking lot, it all seemed only vaguely familiar. He knew he’d been here before.
Clarence Border hated Las Vegas.
One of his many ironies was that he disliked criminals and he hated gamblers. He preferred to be around people who he could trust to do the right thing. Good citizens who didn’t lock their back doors, and who never thought someone would climb in an open bathroom window, were his kind of people.
But in ten years of crisscrossing the country, Clarence had spent a few dozen nights in the city of neon light. Sam and Riddle had once gotten lost downtown. Riddle had fallen into a fountain. And a few men had propositioned the handsome young kid that was then Sam, but he hadn’t understood what they even wanted.
Now inhaling the hot, dry air, Sam seemed to remember the smell of the place. And the sounds. He knew he’d been here before.
He just had no idea when and with whom.
Inside the Greyhound bus station, next to the counter that sold coffee and sandwiches, was a T-shirt display. Sam stared at the shirts: Lost Wages, Sin City, Capitol of Second Chances. He was looking for clues now, and small things were helping him piece his past together.
The woman selling the T-shirts smiled wide and asked if he wanted anything. Sam shook his head no
and went out the main door into the forty-degree heat. He had fifty-one minutes before the first bus pulled out for Mexico.
To Sam’s left was the Golden Gate Casino. The sign was eye-popping orange, even in the daylight. Three tall palm trees stood like tired guards flanking the entrance. A street performer, newly arrived, opened up his guitar case and set it down on the sidewalk in a slice of hot shade in front of the casino.
Sam watched as the man pulled out his guitar and then found a few dollars in his pocket, along with a handful of coins, and tossed it all in the now-empty musical case. He then removed a folding canvas tripod stool from his knapsack and took a seat.
Sam was riveted.
After a few moments, the man was strumming the guitar and singing. This was something Sam suddenly understood. Completely.
Two songs later, Sam cautiously approached. The man lifted his head, grateful for any recognition. Sam dug into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. He put it into the open guitar case. The man smiled, exposing a mouth of small, tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Thanks, man. Much appreciated.’
Sam stayed close, finally saying in a voice filled with apprehension, ‘Do you think . . .’
But he couldn’t finish the sentence. The man waited and then shot back, ‘Yeah? Go on . . .’
It was hot outside, and to Sam it seemed to be getting more difficult to breathe by the moment.
‘I think I play the guitar, but I’m not really sure . . .’
This made the man laugh. ‘I know the feeling.’
But the man looked at Sam and could see that he was completely serious. So he got to his feet and removed the guitar strap from around his neck and handed the instrument to Sam.
‘Go ahead. Play a few chords. You just paid for the right.’
Sam’s shoulder ached, but he turned his head to the side and put the strap around his back. While his left hand cradled the guitar neck, Sam shut his eyes.
And then he softly, tentatively, let his fingers touch the strings.
Sam had learned years before how to make his voice sound like a trumpet. And now, to his own surprise, he played the guitar and made those sounds, in essence becoming two instruments.
And he did it with such fluidity and confidence that people on the sidewalk, intent on getting out of the heat and into the casino, slowed their step. The kid could play.
When Sam’s strumming stopped, a handful of people threw money into the open case. Sam moved to hand the guitar back, but the man didn’t want it.
‘No way. You play. I’ll split the pot.’
The music, a language of its own, was bringing things into focus for Sam. He remembered Las Vegas now. He was here with his brother.
Sam’s eyes were instantly flooded with tears, and he had to lean against one of the palm trees, fearful that he might lose his balance. The street musician put his hand on his arm. ‘Play. You’ll feel better. Go on . . . Get it out, son.’
Sam did as he was told, comforted as his fingers slid up and down the neck of the guitar. He played, as he had in the past, to be transported from reality into another place. He didn’t just make music. He became the music. And as he played, he remembered what mattered.
His brother. Riddle. Riddle. His little brother.
When he stopped, several hours later, the empty guitar case was filled with money. The sun had disappeared and the bright lights of the neon city chased away the dusk.
‘My name’s Hal. And you’re . . . ?’
Sam turned to look at the man. He opened his mouth and out came the words, ‘I’m Sam. Sam Smith.’
Hal nodded. ‘You are one helluva guitar player, son. So where are you from, Sam Smith?’
Sam was surprised to hear himself say, ‘Nowhere. Everywhere. We move a lot.’
Hal continued his query. ‘You come from a family of musicians, don’t you?’
Sam looked down at his fingers and at the guitar. A family. It was all he ever wanted. For him and for Riddle. Did he come from a family of musicians?
Hadn’t his life changed direction when he’d heard someone sing?
Emily walked home from school. She hadn’t done that in forever. When she came in the back door of the kitchen, she was surprised to see that her father was there making dinner. He was home early. Tim Bell liked to cook spicy things. This afternoon he was making a big pot of chilli, loudly promoting the fact that it would make great leftovers, since he believed that it was always the tastiest on the second day.
Her mom was gone. That was unexpected.
Something had come up with some relative, and she’d left town to help. Her father was vague. He didn’t say which relative. Or where she went.
Under ordinary circumstances, Emily would have asked a dozen follow-up questions until she’d gotten to the bottom of the situation.
But now Emily only said, ‘When’s she coming back?’
Tim Bell shrugged. But it was such a cheerful shrug. ‘We don’t know. But we’re hoping tomorrow. I know she wanted to see you and Bobby before you went to the prom.’
Emily tried not to make a face and silently nodded her head. Jared, who was sitting by the window carving a figure out of a bar of soap with a bottle opener, stared at her. ‘Are you going to marry Bobby?’
Emily blurted out, ‘Good God, no! What’s wrong with you?!’
Her father, alarmed, looked up from the cheese grater.
Jared dropped the soap carving and sucked in his lower lip.
And Emily managed to say, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.’
Emily’s cheeks burned red as she walked out of the room. She felt terrible. But what do you do when the person you really need to get away from is yourself?
Sam played while Hal worked the sidewalk, forcing people to listen to the musical prodigy. The lights of the casinos lit up the never-dark Las Vegas sky, and finally Sam had had enough.
Hal tried to split the money with him, but Sam refused. He’d gotten what he wanted from the hours of playing.
He had lost Riddle, but he’d remembered that there was a family named the Bells. And they had a daughter named Emily. And that was something that eased his heartache.
Playing the guitar, he had been transported. And this time it was back to some kind of understanding of who he was. Clarence had returned to his consciousness. Sam wasn’t sure; maybe he had killed his father. But he knew his father had tried to kill him. Many times.
And he also knew that he’d lost his Riddle. That’s what he had been really blocking out of his mind. His little brother. He knew he’d never get over it.
Getting to the Bells was the only thing that mattered to him now. As he crossed the busy street back to the Greyhound station, his damaged shoulder was literally throbbing. He would need to negotiate changing his ticket to Mexico to a fare heading to the Pacific Northwest. But now he had Hal at his side.
And Hal said he knew how to work people behind cash registers.
Debbie Bell didn’t arrive at the dusty little town in Utah until six in the morning.
She went to the Motel Six, checked in, called Tim to say that she’d made it, and was sound asleep eight minutes later.
She’d set the alarm to wake her in three hours, when she planned on going to find her boy.
38
He was prom king. Emily was his girlfriend. Sort of. She was at least his date for the prom, which was half the battle. And he had a plan.
First he would sit outside in the sun and get some colour on his face. Then he would go to the country club and lift leg weights. Afterward he would eat one of the club’s double-bacon cheeseburgers. He then would get a haircut.
After that, he’d pick up a corsage for Emily. And then come home to relax. At exactly five o’clock, he’d start getting dressed.
Bobby pulled himself up out of bed, saying in a loud, booming voice, ‘I’m prom king of the world!’
Emily had never been able to sleep in late. And over the years, it was a problem. But things had changed. Sh
e now could close her eyes and roll over, only to wake up hours later to find the afternoon light spilling all over her pillow.
But not today.
She stared at the clock. It was seven in the morning. And it was Saturday. This was crazy. It was the old Emily all over again.
But then suddenly she knew that wasn’t true. The old Emily was gone. She couldn’t get her back. But the new Emily knew a lot more than the old one. The new Emily was going to deal with it. That’s what Sam would have done. He had never complained about the pain of his life. He had made that choice.
But today was prom day. It was possible that this was going to be the worst day of her life. And then she realised, no, she’d already lived that. A few times now.
She decided in that moment that she would have a regular Saturday. She was not going to have her nails done and not going to get a spray-on tan like half the girls in her class. She was not going to go to a beauty salon at all. She was not going to buy new shoes or borrow someone’s fancy earrings or buy skimpy lacy underwear.
She wasn’t going to just eat celery and red Jell-O all day so that she’d have a flat, indented stomach, and she wasn’t going to panic and buy a box of whitening strips and try to make her teeth look like the colour of a sheet of notebook paper.
She decided to start her day by taking the dog for a long walk. Then maybe she’d make pancakes for her little brother so he’d forget how she snapped at him the day before. She’d send her mom a text telling her she hoped things were going well – wherever her mom was, since she still hadn’t gotten that story.
Emily would finish the book she was reading, and if her dad was working on one of his compositions, maybe she’d go down to the basement and listen for a while.
At the end of the day, she’d take a shower and wash her hair. She’d use the blow-dryer, even though it wasn’t environmentally cool, and then she’d put on her flea-market dress and somehow get through prom night.
And once the day was over, once it was behind her, she made a promise to herself that she’d never think about it again.