Sam looked at the small clock he kept on his desk and blinked. He had sat down what seemed like moments before, thinking he would clean up a few emails. He was normally prompt (Josh called it anal) in responding, but lately he had barely read them, let alone answered any. Now he was almost two-thirds done. Tomorrow he would finish and cross that chore off his list.
Shutting down the computer, he took off his glasses and rubbed the spot between his eyes where a headache had been growing since he had gotten out of bed. Perhaps four hours of computer work had not been one of his better ideas. Of course, there was one thing which just might be contributing to his headache. It was simple enough. A phone call. Pick up the phone and dial. Not much to it, but the idea of it... He frowned and rubbed his eyes.
Do it, he ordered himself, even as he tried to think of something more important that required his immediate attention. He could take a nap, that was certainly high on his list after another restless night.
Grabbing the phone, Sam punched in the familiar number, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. One ring... Two...
"Why the hell doesn't the President send someone who can argue worth a damn to face that jackass Trent? You must have interns who debate better than Elliott!"
"The President's a little too busy running the country to decide who goes on TV, Dad." Sam glanced at his watch and compared it to the clock. "Why are you watching Trent? It's two o'clock there, isn't it?"
"I played golf with Billy Bryant this morning, so I recorded it. I'll guarantee your boss is going to take a lot more interest in who represents the White House after today. That idiot actually said..."
Sam dropped his head into his hand and wondered why he had not thought of taking some Tylenol before dialing the phone. In this mood, his father could easily rant for twenty minutes without drawing breath. And people wonder where I get it, he thought. It's genetic.
"Well, I doubt you called to have me tell you what you already know. What's going on with you?" Sam heard the snap of the TV turning off followed by the creak of his father's favorite leather chair.
"Is Mom around?"
"She's out with Kathleen. That artist friend of theirs is showing some of her paintings at a gallery. They drove up for the opening."
"Oh."
"Why? Is something wrong?"
He swallowed. "N-no, I just wanted to talk to both of you."
"Sam..."
"Dad, I called to tell you -- I wanted to say that I, uh, I..." He took a deep breath. "I resigned on Friday."
"Oh, son."
"Things have been... bad for a while, and I couldn't figure out how to fix them," Sam continued, his voice thinning as he spoke. "I tried, but..." He shrugged.
His father's voice was warm with concern. "Are you all right, Sam?"
He could barely force his voice past a whisper. "I'm sorry."
"Sam -- "
"I thought I could do this. I thought..."
"You have nothing to apologize for. Do you hear me, son?"
"But I -- "
"Nothing to apologize for. I'm very proud of you, Sam. You've always done what you believe in, and if resigning is what you believe is right, then Mom and I support your decision."
Sam cleared his throat before he could speak. "Thanks."
"You know what Mom will want to know when I tell her, don't you? Are you all right?"
"I'm... okay." He could not bring himself to lie. He could not remember the last time he had been anything more than exhausted and overwhelmed. "Tired mostly."
"Fourteen-hour days will do that to you. How about coming home for a couple of weeks? We saw on the Weather Channel that you've had a pretty nasty storm this weekend. Sunshine and warm weather will be a nice change. We could go out on the boat."
"To tell you the truth, Dad, I haven't thought about it."
"You don't have to answer right now. You decide and let us know. I'll have my secretary book a ticket for you with an open-ended return. You come and go when you want."
Sam knew it would be useless to point out he could afford a ticket. He had been losing this argument for years. "I'll give you a call when I make up my mind, all right?"
"Make sure you do, otherwise I'll have your mom call." There was a pause, and then the subject Sam most dreaded. "Josh must have been surprised."
Sam looked at the answering machine, wondering again why no one had called since Friday. He was grateful for the respite, but the silence made him nervous. He was certain the ice storm had kept Josh, at least, from his door, but now that storm was drifting out over the Atlantic. Tomorrow --
"Sam?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said Josh must have been surprised."
"It's hard to tell with him lately." Silence hung between them, and Sam leaped in, attempting to end this. "Dad, I should -- "
"You didn't talk to Josh about resigning."
"I, ah... No."
Another silence, and then his father spoke. "So he's part of the problem."
Sam studied the print above his desk. "Yeah."
"And there was no one else you could talk to. How long has this been going on?
"A while."
"That can be a couple of weeks or months, Sam. Which is it?"
"Dad, I've -- "
"Sam!"
Sam flinched. He had not heard that particular tone since high school. "A month or so," he confessed quietly.
"Why on earth didn't you say something?"
The lump was back in his throat, choking him. "I thought I could handle it."
"Son, there are people who are on your side, people who believe in you and your abilities. You know that, don't you?"
"Yeah -- " Sam cleared his throat again. "-- I do."
His father's voice was quiet and warm. "We love you, Sam."
Sam nodded, but could not form a reply.
"You're going to be all right. I want you to take your time and think through your options. We're here whenever you need us -- to talk, to listen, whatever."
"Th-thanks."
"You'll let me know about coming home, right?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, I'll let you go, but I expect to hear from you soon."
"Love you, Dad," Sam managed before he hit the button and ended the call.
Dropping the phone into its cradle, he wiped his eyes, and then sat with his head between his hands, trying to calm his breathing. He had braced himself for parental disappointment and a lecture on commitment, on seeing things through. The reality, though, had drained him more than he thought possible. He could not remember the last time someone had supported him without reservation.
Sam stumbled to the bathroom and the waiting bottle of Tylenol. He struggled with the cap before swallowing two tablets and washing them down with water. Swaying with fatigue, he staggered to his bed and crawled under the comforter. As the wind rattled the windows, he fell deeply asleep for the first time in days.