The president told her that her daughter Amelie had mostly taken care of Sam in her absence. She glossed over the details, but she divulged that Amelie also had DOOMS, and claimed that she would often take Sam with her to play on the Beach.
President Strand loved her son. Lucy’s meeting with her confirmed that beyond any doubt. The question was whether or not Sam perceived his mother’s love. Both Sam and the president talked about the Beach as though it were a real, physical place, but Lucy remained convinced that it didn’t exist—that it was a shared delusion, and that Sam and Amelie’s so-called “visits” were mental constructs. Sam would not necessarily be convinced of this—especially if it had been “planted” in his mind… But such an explanation would fit with his claims that he had never been able to visit the Beach of his own volition.
What if, subconsciously, Sam had developed an attachment to or longing for the Beach—one that paralleled his feelings toward his sister and mother? Furthermore, what if they had all become, in essence, objects of veneration? Upon further consideration, it wasn’t so hard to imagine. President Strand was an exceptional woman who exhibited panromantic qualities—as did her daughter, Amelie. This was surely one of the reasons why they had been able to commit themselves so completely to the cause of American reconstruction, their one true love. Sam, on the other hand, Lucy diagnosed as demisexual. His sexual desires were strictly limited to those with whom he had formed an emotional connection—excepting family members like Amelie, of course.
It was only natural to regard those more highly with whom he developed an intimate emotional connection. For children, this could lead to veneration. Yet there was also an inherent contradiction in this, for divinity is distant by nature, even as we yearn to grow closer to it. Lucy came to the conclusion that this contradiction was at the root of Sam’s aphenphosmphobia.
“What the fuck?!” Sam exploded in rage when she told him her theory. “I’m a repatriate. A fuckup whose soul gets bounced back from the Seam every time I die in a horrible explosion!”
Lucy had decided to share with Sam her working theory regarding his condition. She was prepared for some resistance, but the intensity of his anger was surprising. He glared at her as he reframed her assessment as wild speculation that he had been brainwashed by a cult. It was the first time Lucy had managed to coax such a powerful emotional response from him, and while she found it a little frightening, she did her best to remain professional, welcoming the breakthrough and the reduction in the distance between them. That was how she presented professionally, but a part of her was delighted by his aggressive response.
Emboldened, she pressed him further, until she finally told him to snap out of it. To renounce his fantasies about the other side.
For an instant, she thought he might explode in anger again, but instead he grew quiet, and after a long moment rose to his feet and left the room without saying another word. She feared she may have pushed him too hard…
Sam turned up for his next appointment, right on time. He looked calmer than usual, though that might have been wishful thinking on Lucy’s part. He’d been thinking a lot about their last session, and how it had ended. He said he wished she was right, about the Beach, and what it meant to be a repatriate. That he appreciated the time they’d spent together—that Lucy had spent listening to his stories.
“It isn’t all in my head, and I can prove it,” Sam said as he pulled out a syringe. Sam was calm, but Lucy wasn’t. Then he stuck the needle in his chest.
It all happened so fast. Lucy froze in her chair as Sam went into convulsions, eventually falling out of his seat. She ran to him, then, as he was laying on the floor, motionless, removed the syringe and performed chest compressions. But it was too late. Lucy sat there, next to him, for what felt like an eternity… And then he opened his eyes and sat up, still wearing that same calm expression. There was another handprint on his arm—a fresh one.
Sam was awake now and began to talk.
“I’m a repatriate,” he said. “Every time I die, I get stuck in-between, and then come back.” He was searching Lucy’s eyes now, reaching for the words as much as they were struggling to come out. “That world won’t have me, and neither will this one. I’m only free to come and go when I’m with her. With Amelie…”
There were tears in his eyes. He looked so lonely. Lucy started crying, too. She’d taken his hand in hers without realizing it, but he didn’t pull away. Lucy squeezed, and he squeezed back.
He needed someone he could be close to, be intimate with. Someone outside his family. Someone who wasn’t Bridget, or Amelie. Someone to whom he could reveal the whole of himself, someone who’d devote themself to him. Her. Sam smiled and nodded and they held each other for a very long time.
A few days after the incident in her office, Lucy tendered her resignation. A classic case of countertransference—the therapist getting emotionally involved with their client—and there was no way her professional pride would permit her to continue working. She felt guilty, of course. There was a permanent shortage of therapists, and many of her clients would struggle to find help elsewhere. But after what happened with Sam, she didn’t see any other option. She’d already come to terms with it. What she was doing for Sam more than made up for it. She’d never normally use this word, but she really did believe his aphenphosmphobia had been cured. He’d shown so much progress that, absent an extremely traumatic experience, she doubted his symptoms would ever return.
To Lucy’s surprise, the president didn’t have any problems with their relationship. If anything, she was pleased. It meant that she’d soon be joining the Strand family, together with this new life growing inside of her.
Their baby was doing well and they’d been told they were having a girl. Sam had already picked out a name for her—Louise. Lou, he liked to call her. He talked to her a lot, touching Lucy’s stomach, telling Lou to grow big and strong.
Bridget was delighted when she found out, and suggested that they take a family photograph—Amelie was out of town, so it was just the three of them blushing and smiling. And that same blush, that same smile, when they received the printout, along with apologies for being old fashioned. There was a funny little message on it—“Be stranded with love”—handwritten and signed. “It’s unique now. You can’t digitize or copy it,” Bridget told them.
Lucy was twenty-eight weeks gone. The doctor just checked them both out and said they were doing fine, but she wasn’t so sure. Lately, she’d been having the same terrible dream every night.
When she opened her eyes, she would be all alone on the Beach. She was lonely and afraid, so she would start to wander around, looking for someone, anyone. She always spotted Sam and Amelie, standing at the water’s edge, their backs to her. Relieved, she’d call out to them. Amelie’s hair shimmered in the gray light, but when she turned it was Bridget’s face, twisted with sadness and pain. She spoke.
—I’ll be waiting for you on the Beach.
Lucy woke herself up with her own screams.
“What do they mean, Sam?” Lucy asked, but Sam never gave her an answer. She began to feel like she was trapped in a cage of questions with no answers.
Everything had gone wrong. She couldn’t understand it. She was a therapist, a good one, but even she couldn’t make sense of the nightmares, or what was happening to her…