Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Sam pushed open the heavy doors and stepped inside the grocery store. He was met immediately with a wall of refrigerated air and the sound of music coming from the speaker system. He made his way over to the cart corral near the storefront windows and, after a quick glance at his shopping list, opted for a basket instead. The grocery store was small and locally owned, with four narrow aisles and a modest freezer section. The checkouts were located near the entrance, which meant that the cashiers had a clear view of Boynton and Simmons as they entered the store. The agents were dressed in business casual wear, but their sunglasses and service pistols set them apart as objects of curiosity.
Sam turned, glancing down at his list as he made his way down the aisle. Russet potatoes was written at the top of the page in his grandmother's neat cursive. The produce section was a single shelf along the back of the store that included both fruit and vegetables. He waited while an elderly woman rummaged through the cucumbers, and after she moved on, he picked out a bag of potatoes and put it in his basket. The second item on his list was one large onion, so he tore a produce bag off the roll and shook it open.
"Bananas! How marvelous." Hound exclaimed, causing Sam to startle, "Can we get some?"
Sam turned to look at the holoform, who had materialized at the other end of the counter. He was almost unrecognizable. In place of his usual slacks and long-sleeved shirt, Hound was wearing a button-up plaid, dark wash jeans, and a cable-knit beanie. Sam stared at him incredulously, still holding an onion in one hand and the produce bag in the other.
"What are you doing?" He spluttered, "Someone could have seen you!"
Hound picked up a bunch of bananas, turning them over in his hands. "I made sure no one was within eyesight."
Sam bit back a groan as he dropped the onion in the bag and tied it off. When he was done, he looked back at Hound who seemed to be comparing his bananas with those still on the stand. "What are you wearing?"
The holoform glanced down at himself, as though in surprise. "I'm blending in. Do you like it?"
Sam's lips quirked up despite himself. "Blending in where, exactly? A hipster convention?"
Hound tipped his head in a manner that suggested he was researching the phrase. A moment later, a pleased smile spread across his face.
"Ferndale is located in the Emerald Triangle." He replied, holding the bananas out towards Sam, "Cannabis production, hiking, and counter-culture are popular here. I did my research."
Sam rolled his eyes, but the accepted the bananas all the same. He put them in the basket, and then glanced at the next item on his list. 3lbs Ground Beef. He started off towards the meat counter, which was located near the freezer section. Bumblebee followed at his side, but Hound trailed behind them. The holoform stared at the fruits and vegetables with naked longing on his face.
"There is so much variety to what you eat." He said, picking up a package to demonstrate his point, "Why do you need three different kinds of peppers?"
Sam huffed a laugh. "They taste different. The red ones are sweeter."
Hound looked intrigued, and he held out the package insistently. "Show me."
Sam was confused for a scant second, before he understood the sentry's meaning. He flushed deeply, glancing around them. Boynton and Simmons were standing at the other end of the produce section, but otherwise they were alone. He turned back around to find Bumblebee glaring daggers at the taller holoform. Hound looked abashed, and he slowly put the peppers back on the shelf.
"My apologies, Sam. That was thoughtless." He murmured.
The sentry sounded so contrite that Sam felt a pang of sympathy for him. It served to soften his irritation, and he reached out to pick up the package.
"It's alright. I'll show you later." He promised, putting the peppers in his basket.
"That's kind of you." Hound replied, but he was lacking his earlier enthusiasm.
"Hey, c'mon." Sam said, bumping shoulders with him, "I'll show you the candy aisle. You'll love it."
Hound canted his head to the side, and Sam could tell by the interested glint in his eye that he had taken the bait. "There's an entire aisle for confectionary?"
"There are entire stores for candy." Sam said, walking towards the meat counter. "There's this place at the Hollywood and Highland Center in LA that's insane. My parents took me when I was a kid. They had everything—I spent all of my birthday money."
Hound looked taken aback. "Birthday money?"
Sam laughed good-naturedly as he stopped in front of the meat cooler. His grandmother hadn't stipulated what kind she wanted, so he picked out a package of medium ground beef and added it to his basket.
"Yeah, sure." He said with a lopsided grin, "Birthdays are a big deal for us, even adults. Google 'birthday party' and you'll see what I mean."
Hound's eyes went faraway for a moment, and then they lit up with delight. "Birthday parties—what a charming custom."
Sam chuckled as he switched the basket to his other hand—it was getting heavy. "I'm glad you think so." He said, pulling the list out of his pocket.One dozen eggs. "Come on, this way."
They made their way over to the refrigerated section. It was busier in this part of the store, with several older women pushing their carts and one young child crying in the arms of a harried-looking man. Sam stepped up to the freezer and pulled open the doors. There was only one carton of eggs left, so he grabbed it. When he turned back around, Hound was holding a jar of strawberry jam with a hopeful look on his face.
Sam heaved a put-upon sigh, but he was smiling when he said, "Yeah, alright. Put it in the basket."
Hound's face lit up, and Bumblebee leaned forward to murmur, "It puts the lotion in the basket, or else it gets the hose again."
Sam chuckled as he accepted the jam. "Well, that's about twenty years better than your Top Gun reference."
"Top Gun is a classic." Bumblebee returned primly. "It was one of the first movies I saw at the drive-in."
"Classic is just another word for old." Sam retorted, stepping around a shopping cart that was parked in the center of the aisle.
"No it's not." Boynton disagreed as he came up behind them. "My car's a classic—I'm old."
The senior agent was standing with his hands in his pockets, his posture alert but relaxed. Simmons was standing behind him, her arms folded over her chest and an amused expression on her face.
"You're the next youngest person here." Sam said, directing his words at the blonde, "Help me out."
"Top Gun or Silence of the Lambs?" Simmons asked, pulling her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose so she could pin him with a disbelieving look, "Get real, Sam. It's Top Gun all the way."
Hound made a confused-sounding chirrup. "You enjoy a film about a cannibalistic serial killer?"
"Sure." Sam said, grinning at the sentry's obvious consternation, "Hannibal the Cannibal. What's not to like?"
The look of consternation on Hound's face deepened, much to Simmons' obvious amusement. Before either of them could reply, however, a soft voice interrupted them.
"Sam? Sam Witwicky? Is that you?"
Sam's smile disappeared as he turned towards the voice. It belonged to an elderly woman, perhaps sixty or seventy years old, with graying hair piled on top of her head. Her back was stooped, giving her a hunched appearance. She was staring at him curiously, almost expectantly.
"Can—can I help you?" He managed to reply.
The woman's face split in a smile. "I thought it was you. My, how you've grown. Do you remember me?"
He didn't remember her at all, but it seemed rude to say so. He felt Bumblebee shift forward, brushing against his mind.
/Her name is Beverly Graham./ He supplied. /She lives on Lark Street./
The name was distantly familiar, but it did nothing to jog his memory. He pushed appreciation at Bumblebee as he smiled at the older woman.
"Of course, Mrs. Graham." He lied, "How are you?"
She pressed a thin hand against her chest, laughing lightly. "Oh my! You do remember. I saw you come into the store, and I said to myself that must be Althea's grandson. You're the spitting image of your grandfather. What are you doing in Ferndale?"
Sam was aware of Boynton and Simmons watching the exchange. The two agents were staring at the older woman, as though measuring her up. The thought made Sam smile inwardly. He was pretty sure that he could take her.
"I'm just visiting." He replied, shifting the basket to his other arm, "I'm here for the week."
Bumblebee reached out, slipping his hand around the handle and pulling the basket away. Sam let it go without protest.
"Isn't that lovely? Althea must be so happy you're home." Mrs. Graham replied.
Sam rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Yeah, sure. It's good to be back."
The older woman's face creased with sympathy, and she reached out to pat him on the elbow. "I imagine so, after… well. After everything that happened. We followed the news religiously after you were taken. I wasn't sure whether they were ever going to find you."
Sam stiffened, both at the reminder of his imprisonment onboard the Nemesis and at her pitying tone. He could feel the flush that was spreading across his face, betraying his discomfort. As his side, Bumblebee's expression noticeably cooled.
"Well, like I said, it's good to be back." He managed, forcing a thin-lipped smile, "If you'll excuse me, my grandmother's expecting us."
"Oh, of course." Mrs. Graham said, but she didn't move out of his way. "It's only, well, I was wondering—we all were, really, however you survived it. Just awful business."
Sam's flush deepened at her cajoling, wheedling tone. It was obvious that she was fishing for something to sink her teeth into. The reminder that he was an object of curiosity, a subject for idle gossip, was degrading.
"Excuse me." Sam ground out, stepping around the older woman.
"Oh dear." Mrs. Graham murmured, pressing a hand against her mouth, "I do apologize if I upset you."
Sam didn't trust himself to reply, so he said nothing at all. Instead, he made his way down the aisle without a backwards glance. He tried his best to ignore the curious looks that were directed his way from the other shoppers. Evidentially, Mrs. Graham's voice had carried. Bumblebee walked at his side, close enough to touch. His mental presence was reserved but calm, and Sam was quietly thankful for it. They made their way to the front of the store, stopping long enough for Sam to grab a six-pack of craft beer from the display at the end of the aisle, before getting in line at the nearest checkout. He was aware of the others trailing behind him, but he studiously ignored them. He and Bumblebee unloaded the basket, and then he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. It was thin, containing only his diplomatic identification card, a credit card, and half a dozen business cards. He drummed his fingers restlessly against the counter as his groceries were scanned and bagged.
If Hound was tempted by the brightly colored candy on display, he never said anything about it.
He handed the credit card to the cashier, who slid it through the scanner on the register. The machine beeped its approval as the receipt started printing, and Sam accepted the card back with murmured thanks. He made to grab the bags at the end of the checkout, but Bumblebee was faster. The holoform picked them up, giving Sam a tilted half-smile.
"I got it." He murmured.
"Thanks." Sam replied.
Bumblebee walked ahead, pushing open the door for him. It was busier than it had been when they first arrived, with a dozen vehicles parked along the street. Sam made his way down the ramp and over towards the parking lot. He reached out as he passed Hound, giving the Jeep Wrangler a pat on the hood. The side lot was similarly crowded, with a beat-up truck parked just inches away from Bumblebee. Sam squeezed between the truck and the Camaro, popping the driver's side door just wide enough to slide into the seat. He heard the sound of the trunk being closed, and then the holoform was climbing into the passenger seat beside him.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "You're really committing to the bit, huh?"
Bumblebee grinned at him as he made a show of pulling the seatbelt across his chest. "I'm method acting."
The smile was on Sam's face before he could stop it. "Uh huh."
He fastened his own seatbelt and, when it was obvious that Bumblebee wasn't driving, he pushed the ignition button. The engine rumbled to life, and Sam put the Camaro in reverse.
"You can commit to it all you like." Sam said mildly, checking his mirrors, "But I'm guessing you're not going to let me scrape the shit out of your fender on this guy's truck."
Bumblebee grinned at him and Sam backed out of the parking spot. It was a tight fit, but he managed to exit the lot without incident. He glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see Bluestreak and Hound pull onto the road behind them. Their little convoy made its way down Main Street, slowing near the post office to let a group of pedestrians cross the road. One of them, a teenaged guy in Bermuda shorts, stared at the Camaro as they passed. Sam tried his best to ignore the naked reverence on his face.
He slowed again as they crossed the bridge, and then he turned onto Centerville Road and accelerated to thirty-five miles per hour. Bumblebee watched him drive, an elbow propped up on the door.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked, apropos of nothing.
Sam tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "Nope."
"Alright." Bumblebee replied.
The road meandered along the coast, with sloping hills on one side and ocean on the other. The sun glinted off the water as seabirds flew in lazy circles above the beach. There were fewer houses the further they drove—most of the properties had long since been abandoned. They passed an overgrown baseball field next to a community center with only two cars parked out front. Sam had played ball there once, when he was younger. The horseflies had chewed him to pieces.
They drove the rest of the way in silence. Hound and Bluesteak turned off as they passed the access road near the harbor, and the SUV was nowhere to be seen. Sam felt a warm swell of emotion as he turned the corner and his grandmother's property came into sight. The little house stood out against the backdrop of blue sky and dark water. Sam slowed as he crossed the isthmus and started up the gravel driveway. His grandmother was sitting on the deck, Sheena laying at her feet. He parked next to Cliffjumper, who was resting in his alt mode near the lawn.
"How was the drive?" His grandmother asked as Sam climbed out of the car.
"It was good." Sam replied, shutting the door and walking around to the trunk. Bumblebee's holoform joined him, and together they grabbed the groceries.
"Was it busy in town?" Nan asked.
Sam crossed the lawn and climbed the steps. "Yeah, it was getting busy. The parking lot was pretty crowded when we left. No, don't stand up. I'll put these away."
His grandmother had started to rise out of her chair, but she sat back down at Sam's words. "Are you sure, Chicken?"
Sam smiled at her as he pulled open the screen door. "Yeah, Nan. I'm sure."
"Well, thank-you dear. Leave the hamburger in the fridge." She called after him.
Bumblebee followed him into the porch, waiting patiently as Sam took off his shoes. Then, they carried the groceries into the kitchen and set the bags on the counter. The ground beef, eggs, peppers, and onion went into the fridge, the potatoes went into the bucket under the sink, and bananas went on top of the microwave. Sam stared at the jar of strawberry jam for a long moment, before he left it on the counter. He'd have some toast later. When he finished, he put the fifty-dollar bill back in his grandmother's purse, and put the purse back in its spot in the cupboard by the sink.
"I'm going to put this in the back fridge." Sam said, grabbing the six-pack off the counter, "I'll meet you outside, yeah?"
"Alright." Bumblebee agreed.
Sam headed towards the wood room as Bumblebee made his way onto the deck. The back fridge was an old Northstar model with faded off-white paint. His grandmother used it to store leftovers from large family dinners, and it smelled faintly of old gravy. Sam put the six-pack on the shelf next to an opened bottle of Cold Duck wine, before pushing the door shut with his hip. He left the wood room, turning down the hall towards the kitchen, when he pulled up short. The door to his grandfather's study was ajar, spilling warm light into the hallway. He stared at the doorway, hesitating for a long moment. His grandmother had refused to change the room after his grandfather had died. It was a memorial, of sorts, to a man that Sam barely remembered—a man who was his namesake. It was that thought that spurred him forward, bare feet padding across the hardwood floor to push open the door.
The room within was cluttered and masculine. There was a reading chair near the fireplace, which had been grated and swept clean. A row of bookshelves took up one entire wall, spanning from floor to ceiling, while a large picture window took up the opposite wall. The two remaining walls were lined with oil paintings, commendations, plaques, and diplomas. The air smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, just as he remembered.
Sam made his way into the room, feeling like an interloper. Sunlight was streaming through the window, warming the hardwood floor. He ran his fingers over the globe that stood beside the door, and then, acting on impulse, spun it on its axis. He ambled across the room before it had stopped spinning, coming to a stop in front of the fireplace. The mantel was lined with framed photographs. Most of them were of his grandfather fishing or boating, but there was one picture of his grandparents when they were younger. His grandmother was fresh-faced and beautiful, and his grandfather had his arm around her shoulders. They were both smiling widely at the camera.
All at once, Mrs. Graham's words came back to him. Sam reached out, picking the frame off the shelf and staring at the picture. He didn't see the resemblance between them. His grandfather had been tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair that curled around his ears. He had looked like a man's man, which Sam certainly did not. They had the same eyes, though—almond-shaped and brown. His grandfather's eyes had crinkled when he smiled. Sam supposed that his did too.
He set the picture back on the shelf and picked up the next one. It was a portrait of his grandfather, taken sometime near the end of his life. He was thinner and pale, and his hair was shot through with gray. Sam barely recognized him—the man in the picture looked nothing like the person he remembered. The thought made his throat thicken with emotion. It had only been, what, fifteen years since he had died?
Sam slowly sat on the window bench as he stared at the grainy photograph. He gripped the picture frame until his hands ached, struggling to remember the person staring back at him. His grandfather was like a ghost—immortalized on glossy filament, but gone forever.
He didn't realize that he was crying until he heard the floorboards creak in the hallway. He stood quickly, turning around to dash the moisture away with the heel of his hand. The door opened, and then his grandmother softly asked, "Samuel? What are you doing in here?"
Sam cleared his throat. "Nothing. I'm just taking a look around."
He heard his grandmother's footsteps behind him. "Oh? Were you looking for anything in particular?"
Sam glanced down at the picture frame in his hands, shaking his head faintly. "No, not really."
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Nan asked gently, "What's got you so upset?"
He didn't turn around to look at her—he didn't dare. "Nothing's wrong, Nan."
His voice didn't waver, but only just. His grandmother stopped behind him, squeezing his arm. "Oh, don't you fib to me, Samuel James. You know I can tell a falsehood from a mile away."
Her voice was very gentle, and it made Sam's eyes sting against sudden tears. His grandmother turned him around by the shoulders, tucking a finger under his chin and raising his head. He forced himself to meet her eyes, which immediately softened with sympathy.
"Oh, sweetheart. Come here." She murmured, gathering him up in her arms. There was no judgment in her voice—no judgment or pity or disappointment—there was only unwavering affection. It eroded his defenses, and he was mortified when he started crying in earnest. His grandmother shushed him, patting him on the back and rocking him. He wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders, hugging her back with everything he had left.
Eventually, when the storm of Sam's crying had abated, she guided them to sit on the window seat. Sam rubbed the sleeve of his shirt across his face, blotting away the worst of the tears. His grandmother took the picture frame from his hands, running her fingertips over the grainy photograph.
"Is this what's upset you so?" She asked, angling her head to look at him.
Sam's breath shuddered out of him. "Yeah. I guess."
"I wish you'd tell me what's wrong." She murmured, setting the photograph aside.
Sam propped his elbows on his knees and rested his face in his hands. "I don't want to worry you."
His grandmother rubbed a hand across his back. "Oh, sweetheart. I've been worried about you since the day you were born. It's what grandmothers do."
Sam lowered his hands, staring resolutely at the floor. "Not like this, Nan."
"There's nothing you could say that will make me feel any differently about you." She said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Do you understand?" She seemed to be waiting for an answer, so Sam nodded faintly. She squeezed him approvingly. "Alright then, that's settled."
Sam reached out, picking up the picture frame from where she had set it on the table. He stared at it for a long while, gathering his thoughts. His grandmother waited him out, quiet and patient and supportive.
"I don't recognize him anymore." He said at last, breaking the silence.
"Oh?" She asked, as though in surprise, "Well, that's not unusual. You were very young when he died."
Sam shook his head. "No, I mean I can't remember his face."
His grandmother seemed confused by his explanation. "Sweetheart, that's alright. Do you think he would be upset? Is that it?"
Sam shook his head again, his throat constricting with emotion.
"What did mom tell you?" He asked softly, "About me?"
His grandmother's eyebrows knit together in consternation. "What do you mean?"
Sam raised his head to pin her with a flat look. "I think you know what I mean."
The look that she gave him in return was decidedly unimpressed. "Your mother hasn't told me much that I hadn't already read about in the newspapers. Well, except the fact that you're in a relationship with your car. She thought I should know, since he was coming with you."
Sam sighed softly. "Of course she did."
"Sweetheart, what's this all about?" She asked gently.
Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's a long story, Nan."
His grandmother's face creased with a wan smile. "I love stories."
He told her about everything—the Allspark energy in his body, his on-lining, the spark bond, the Nemesis, Novo, MECH… everything. His grandmother listened to it all without flinching or balking. By the time that he had finished speaking, his voice was hoarse and his head was pounding. She excused herself long enough to make them both a cup of tea, and then she was back, sitting at his side as she waited for him to continue.
"That's it, really." He said, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic mug, "Not even my parents know about the spark bond."
"So why were you in here by yourself?" She asked, "Why does the picture upset you so much?"
Sam stared at his reflection in the tea. "Nan, I can't remember him."
Her eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Sweetheart, you were so young—"
"You don't get it." He interrupted, turning to look at her, "I don't remember him. It's been fifteen years and the man in the picture might as well be a stranger. How long will it take me to forget you? Or mom and dad? How long until I can't even remember what you looked like?"
Compassion spread across his grandmother's face. "Oh, pumpkin. Is that it?"
Sam set his jaw, staring resolutely at the floor. His grandmother set her tea on the side table, and grasped him by the shoulders.
"Now you listen to me, Samuel James Witwicky." She began, giving him a little shake to emphasize her words, "It doesn't matter one whit if you remember the color of my eyes or the sound of my voice. Do you understand me? The only thing that matters—the only thing—is that you remember how much I loved you."
Tears pricked the back of Sam's eyes again, and he swallowed against the lump in his throat.
"You don't get it, Nan." He replied tremulously, "I might live for thousands of years, maybe even longer. What if I forget all of this?"
His grandmother took the teacup from his hands and set it on the table. "Sweetheart, none of this matters. The house, the knickknacks, the mementos, they're all just things."
"It matters to me." Sam murmured softly.
"Pumpkin, look at me." She said, squeezing his knee to get his attention. Sam turned his head, troubled brown eyes meeting hazel green, "It doesn't matter if you live to a hundred or a hundred thousand. If the world is kind, then your parents and I will predecease you. It doesn't matter if you remember what we look like, or the things we did, or the things we said. All that matters is you know, in your heart, that you are loved."
Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the tears before they could fall.
"You've been blessed with a long life, Sam." She murmured, squeezing his knee again, "I know it's daunting, but you have the chance to do great things."
Sam laughed morosely. "Nan, people are going to look at me like I'm a freak of nature."
"Some of them will, yes." She agreed, causing Sam to flinch, "People are always afraid of the things they don't understand. It's up to you to rise above all that."
"I don't know if I can." He admitted quietly.
"Samuel James Witwicky, you've saved the world… twice." She admonished dryly, "Don't let the likes of Beverly Graham make you feel inferior. She doesn't deserve you."
Sam laughed quietly, and his grandmother patted him affectionately.
"Other doesn't mean less than, Sam." She murmured, "It just means different. Remember that."
Sam took her hands in his own, and leaned forward to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks Nan."
"You're welcome, Chicken." She replied, "Now how about we go start supper? I have a bag of potatoes that need peeling."
Sam huffed another laugh as he climbed to his feet. As he picked up their teacups, a thought occurred to him and he turned to look at his grandmother. "How did you know about Mrs. Graham?"
She turned a knowing smile on him. "Bumblebee told me."
"Oh, did he?" Sam asked, making his way across the room.
"He did." She agreed, following behind him. "He's a good boy."
Sam paused on the threshold, glancing at her uncertainly. "He is, you know. Good. To me and for me."
His grandmother's face creased with a fond smile. "Yes, Sam. I can see that."
The sincerity in her voice warmed him all over, and he held the door as she stepped into the hallway. They made their way towards the kitchen together, leaving the den behind them.
Notes: Author's Note: There's only one chapter left in Refuge. Thanks for joining me on the journey. I truly appreciate it.