Sam's Yarn (Could Be Short Story #1)

The Revelation

"How do I get a proper diagnosis?" Sam demanded the moment Blecham let him in.

The doctor looked him over in astonishment. "Shouldn't you be in school? And lad! You're pale as the dead. Let me feel your pulse."

Sam stepped out of the doctor's reach. "School doesn't want me. I want to know how I get a proper diagnosis for Daltonism. Maybe Miss Langley will listen to me then."

Doctor Blecham stared at him. "Oh aye, I can run you through the test—but why? I thought you and the teacher had it all worked out."

"I thought so too," Sam said, then his throat spasmed and the wall of anger gave way. He covered his eyes with one hand as he swallowed hard, trying to stop the shameful weakness from showing. "Darn it, I'm sorry—for the first time in my life I thought I had a chance, and—and the disappointment is worse than I thought it'd be. I'll be all right in a moment." He scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes and tasted salt, but the flood just wouldn't stop. Of all the things he might've done, why did he have to start crying in front of the only person who thought he might amount to a hill of beans?

"Aye there, come in; sit down lad, sit down," the doctor murmured, guiding Sam into his office.

Sam sat down in the same chair by the window, and used his sleeve to wipe his eyes. Then he found himself spilling his guts to the doctor because they just wouldn't seem to stay packed down and orderly anymore. All the heartaches and griefs of the past few days seemed to lessen as he unburdened himself in the doctor's patient ear. His father would've listened of course, but his hands were tied just as much as his brothers' were. The doctor might be able to help him.

"Lad," Blecham said after Sam finished, "would you describe your situation as ill-used?" There was hesitancy in his tone.

"Ill-used?" Sam echoed, dumbfounded.

The doctor nodded gravely. "It takes all shapes."

Sam sat up straighter, electrified by the horrible implications. "No!" he gasped. "No! Mother is—well, a hard woman—but she hasn't laid a hand on me—" he stopped and swallowed. "—she hasn't laid a hand on me since I was little, and I daresay I earned the whippings." He tried to laugh.

The doctor looked at his hands. "Sometimes lies seem more comfortable than the truth, Sam. But I think you're beginning to realize the truth has more power."

Sam stared at the doctor, then at his books, the wall, and the desk, feeling as if something dreadful had risen up and seized his heart. "I think I had better be going," he said, fumbling with the books. His hands were numb.

"Well, I can't stop you," Doctor Blecham sighed, "but I do think you'd be the better for something to eat."

Sam stopped gathering up the books and looked at the doctor.

"I've got cold roast beef sandwiches in the pantry," Blecham said.

Half an hour later the world didn't seem so bleak. It was amazing what some dinner could do. As Sam helped the doctor to clear away the dishes, he asked him again about the test. The doctor turned and squinted at him for a moment as if judging whether he were in the right frame of mind for it, then nodded. "This way," he said, leading Sam back to the little table by the window where he always sat. He then took out a cardboard box and began laying out little skeins of yarn on a white cloth in front of Sam.

Sam looked at him in disbelief. Why was it always yarn?

The doctor closed the box. "There are five skeins of each color, but they're each of different shades. I want you to match as many of the same color as you are able. Let's begin with this one." He grabbed a skein and held it out for Sam's consideration.