Plan B Read Online Free Page A

camel’s-hair coats when I took the bus to San Francisco with my mother to see the dentist, and then drown our sorrows in coffee-toffee cake at Blum’s. Back then everyone dressed up to go to the city. I wore patent-leather shoes and white gloves. I had a felt hat, with a red grosgrain ribbon around the brim, and tucked into that, a feather: can you imagine? Sam would die laughing if he could see how I dressed, like arebellious Amish girl. But I felt so beautiful. However, not even finery, not even feathers, could protect you from dog shit. You’d instantly be stuck in a game of Chutes and Ladders, feeling beautiful and proud one moment, people holding their noses the next.
    I got up and pawed the offending shoe against the wet grass, then sat down on the concrete piling and looked at my shoe. There was an enormous amount of doggage embedded in its elaborate treads.
    Muttering, I searched for a stick in the grass, and once I found one, started picking out the shit, but it was pebbly, and stuck. Trying to dislodge it was like picking burnt batter out of a waffle iron.
    It took forever. Then a light drizzle started up again. I kept at the sneaker, and two things happened: First, the project turned out to be strangely satisfying—I’m really good at this sort of work. And second, after a while I found myself in a state of joy. I was focused, and it was beautiful up there, and the shit was nearly entirely out of my shoe. That’s a lot. I don’t know why God won’t just spritz away our hardships and frustration. I don’t know why the most we can hope for on some days is to end up a little less crazy than before, less down on ourselves. I don’t know why we have to become so vulnerable beforewe can connect with God, and even sometimes with ourselves. But by the same token, I don’t understand how I got rings of laundry lint on my red cord.
    I guess we’re simply not meant to understand some things. Bono, of U2, who is a Christian, says that his favorite song is “Amazing Grace” and his second favorite is “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” and most of the time, I have to let it go at that.
    I prayed for Sam and me. And then I called for Lily and headed back home in the drizzle.
    I took off my shoes outside the front door, because I wanted to wash the soles off. Sam’s shoes were on the front step, too, so muddy and worn that you might expect to find just one of them, at a flood site, or at low tide. This is how the guys wear them.
    Sam was lying on the couch watching TV when I stepped in. I could tell he was still mad, because for a moment he did not look over. I closed the door behind me.
    â€œI’m sorry I was awful,” I said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me sometimes. Everything gets to be too much, and I can’t breathe.”
    He looked over in wounded silence. Then, as he actually saw me, there was an almost imperceptible shift in his face, as when he was a baby, first waking from a deepsleep: you could see his inside eyes open before he blinked awake, as if something inside him had floated to the surface from far away. “Look at you,” he said, amused, parental. “You’re all wet. Where you been? And where on earth are your shoes, dude?” Then he rubbed his forehead, wearily, but smiling, just like my mother used to do.

three

sam’s dad

 
    W e have recently returned from another holiday with Sam’s dad. It feels like a miracle to be able to say that, and it feels that way every time his father and I spend time together with Sam, watching him ski or draw or sleep. Because for me to be able to write that first sentence seemed, for the first seven years of Sam’s life, an impossibility. I want to tell you the story now, of how Sam and his father met, because in these dark and scary times, it always makes me feel hope again. I’ve said this before: When God is going to do something