Amends: A Love Story (4 page)

"I'm going to call my grandmother." I think
of Gran, Mom's mom. If anyone can fix this, she can.

"Good," murmurs Nan, keeping one eye on the
kitchen. "I think that's a really good idea."

/////////////////////////

I watch my father snore the deep, stentorian
snores of alcohol-induced unconsciousness. He's lying on the
carpeted living room floor like a shaggy dog. I covered him with a
blanket when he finally passed out. My shirt is wet from his
tears.

Now I'm cleaning the kitchen, which is a
disaster zone that would have made Mom curse and then weep. I start
by sweeping up the broken glass. I brush it into a dustpan and get
a sliver stuck in my finger. I pull it out and watch the blood pool
and flow. My mind leaps to Mom's accident and all the damage she
sustained. I run my hand—the one that isn't bleeding—across my
scalp and contemplate the fragility of my skull, and how easily it
could be crushed.

Snap out of it, I tell myself. I bandage my
finger and keep cleaning. The next task is the worst: a pool of
beery vomit that my father heaved onto the kitchen right before the
police left. My mom usually took care of this kind of thing,
although I know immediately what to do. I throw a couple of towels
onto the oozing to soak up as much liquid as possible. Then I wad
up the towels, toss them into the washing machine, and set it on
sanitize.

I'm about to spray some disinfectant on the
sticky remnants when my phone chirps. It's a text from Gran:

Next available flight is tomorrow at five
a.m. Hang on tight and call if you need anything. Love you. Stay
strong.

Another day alone here with Dad. It might as
well be an eternity. I feel awful for him—he just lost his wife—but
I'm also angry. More than angry. I want to scream at him and shake
him for making me clean up his puke just an hour after I learned
that Mom died. I take a deep breath and try to clear my head. Focus
on the cleaning, I tell myself. But before I can do anything else,
my phone chirps again. This time it's Maggie.

OMG, so fucking sorry, cannot believe it.
Tell me what you need.

While Dad was gradually passing out, I sent
Maggie what is probably the weirdest text I've ever sent. I would
have called, but I knew she was at a dance club with some of her
college buddies. I'm so relieved to see her words I almost cry.

I reread Maggie's question and really think
about what I need right now. I look at my dad and the wreckage in
the kitchen. I wrinkle my nose at the faint smell of vomit and
beer. I decide what I really need is to get the fuck out of
here.

/////////////////////////

The boy is dancing to some ska-punk-techno
hybrid, and his moves are fierce. He has shoulder-length dark hair
and narrow, mobile hips. A thick vine—black with large,
evil-looking thorns—is inked around his arms and neck. I am
mesmerized.

"Hey, girl," whispers Maggie. "Drink
this."

I take the plastic cup from my best friend
and take a small sip. It tastes sweet, sour, and astringent. I make
a face. "What is this?"

"Wine," says Maggie. "It'll help you relax.
Just chug the whole thing."

Maggie looks at me expectantly. My mind
flashes back to my father. I know alcoholism runs in families. Will
this cup of wine be the first step on a journey of life-ruining
addiction and despair? Fuck it. I gulp down the wine as instructed
and let it burn its way down my throat.

She nudges me. "Hot, isn't he?"

"Yeah. Nice to look at, I guess."

She giggles. "You can do more than look."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, right," I say. "A guy
that hot wouldn't even look at me. Besides, he's dancing with a
pixie right now. I'm way too tall for him, as well as being the
social pariah of the senior class."

Maggie waves her hand as if to brush away my
objections. "He's just some guy from my Modern Poets seminar, and
he has no idea who you are. Just get out there and dance. Besides,
you're an awesome dancer. You're actually pretty fucking graceful
for a gimp."

I blush. She's basically right. I am,
shockingly, a decent dancer. When I move to music, my awkwardness
and lopsided, rolling gait disappear. I've never taken a dance
class, but the few times Maggie has dragged me to dance clubs, I've
been fine. Maybe even slightly more than fine.

I look at the boy again. I guess he's
technically a man, since he's out of high school. Maggie senses my
wavering. "Go on," she says, "It could help get your mind off, you
know, everything."

Maggie's voice shakes slightly. She's almost
as weirded out by Mom's death as I am. It's as if the sun or the
moon just ceased to exist. I smile at Maggie, and she squeezes my
hand. Then I let the music sweep me onto the dance floor and draw
me to the boy.

For a while, I dance around him, barely in
the periphery of his vision. Then he turns and smiles at me like
some kind of predatory animal that's found fresh, tender prey. A
jolt of fear runs through me, but I will it away. Instead, I let
him take my hand and pull me into him. I rest my head against his
chest as we sway to the music. He wraps his arms around me, and my
limbs go warm and boneless. It feels good to relax in his arms, to
forget everything but this one, elastic moment. I try to take it
all in: his strong, ropy arms, his taut midsection, the heat of his
body. He smells like cedar and smoke.

I consider asking his name, but don't. I
decide that, for tonight, it doesn't really matter.

Chapter 4: Laird

Ember is screaming. It's a
loud, high keening that cuts through the humid night air. Her
screams form curses and recriminations. And they're all directed at
me.
Fuck you. This is all your fault. Why
didn't you just stop the car when I asked you to? I can't believe
this is happening.

I look at Ember and try to
remember the First Aid class I took with the rest of the football
team. Her pupils seem to be about the same size. Her cheeks are
flushed, indicating adequate oxygenation.
You really should have stopped the car. What are we going to
do now? What are YOU going to do?
Yes, I
decide, she's fine.

I close my ears and leap out of the Land
Rover. One of the headlights is cracked, and there's a small dent
in the front left fender. Otherwise it's fine. The small, white car
I hit—a Ford Escape, I think—is another story. A whole different
book, even. It's crumpled like an accordion. K.T. Tunstall blares
from the broken window on the drivers' side, and I realize I must
have hit a woman my mom's age. Little pussy that I am, I want to
puke, but I manage to hold it all together. Barely.

I approach the car and basically tear the
driver's side door from its hinges. All those muscles I put on for
football season are finally doing something useful. When I fling
the door aside, my darkest fears are realized. The other driver is
a woman who vaguely resembles my mother—at least, the way I
remember her from her worst days at the hospital. Her eyes are
closed, and her face is swollen. Dark bruises ring her eyes. She
reminds me of an overripe fruit just beginning to rot.

I look down and notice her dress. A nurse's
uniform, spattered with blood. I stare for a few long moments.

I hear someone shrieking in
my ear. Ember must have gotten out of the car.
What the fuck are you doing? If we're not going to leave, then
you better fucking help her. Don't just stand there with your dick
in your hand.

Ember's words galvanize me into action. She
may be awful, but she's right. I kneel by the other driver and put
my hand on her chest, feeling for the rise and fall of regular
respiration. When I realize there's nothing, I panic and wonder if
I should have listened to Ember and just driven away. No, I tell
myself sternly, that would have been wrong. I take a deep breath
and check her airway for obstructions. Then I sack up and start
giving the woman CPR, just like Coach taught us. I compress her
chest, frantically hoping I'm not pushing bone shards into vital
organs, and lock my mouth onto hers. She tastes like breath mints
and blood. I try not to think about it.

The pushing and the breathing go on for what
seems like forever. At some point, soft hands and strong arms pull
me away. A paramedic—a short blonde woman with thick, muscular
arms—shakes her head. "I'm sorry, it's too late. At least you
tried. You did everything you could." Then she calls me a hero, and
I vomit onto the swampy ground. As I heave up everything in my
guts, she strokes my back. "Everything's going to be fine," she
says in a low, calming voice. I let her lead me to the
ambulance.

"There's somebody here who'd like to see
you." She smiles and points towards a gurney. Someone is rising
from the makeshift bed, someone with a mass of dark, tangled hair
like seaweed. She slowly lifts her head so I can see her face, and
that's when I start to scream. It's my mother, rotted and ruined by
worms and whatever else is with her under the ground.

Then I wake up.

/////////////////////////

My heart feels like it's going to punch its
way out of my chest, and my body is slick with sweat, despite Dad's
state-of-the-art climate control system. I can't stop thinking
about the accident. And Mom. And Ember.

Dad's doctor met me here at the house and
gave me a shot of some kind of tranquilizer. All it's doing is
giving me nightmares. There's no way I'm going to sleep tonight, no
matter how many drugs I'm on. I get out of bed and go to my
computer. I am obsessively curious about the woman I killed.

Killed.
The word echoes in my brain. I killed someone. It feels
surreal. My mother is dead, and I killed someone.

I open my browser, and it
takes me all of two seconds to find my victim. The accident is
already all over the Internet.
Local woman
killed in late night crash
, the headlines
read. Her name is—was—Laura Dormer. She was a beloved pediatric
nurse at Jasper Heights Community Hospital. There's a picture of
her dressed up as a witch, handing out Halloween treats to kids on
the cancer ward. She has a strong jaw and ice blue eyes: a natural
protector. She's a rougher, more robust version of my own
mother.

She is survived by her husband Craig Dormer,
an auto detail technician, and a daughter about my age. The
daughter's name is Amity. She's been accepted to Adams College,
which is, eerily enough, my first choice. There's a picture of her
holding a giant beet from her mom's garden. Her expression is oddly
tentative, as if she's afraid to fully commit herself to a smile.
She has long, storybook hair and aspirations to become a pediatric
surgeon. She's a wounded princess who's lost her mother—just like
me. And it's all my fault. I want to throw myself at her feet and
beg her forgiveness.

I take a deep, shuddering
breath and quickly scan the rest of the article. It mentions the
heroism of the other driver—me—giving CPR to Laura at the scene. It
also includes a self-serving quote from Ember:
I really have no idea what happened. She just came out of
nowhere. I think she must have blown through the stop sign or
something.
I suppose I can't blame her for
trying to deflect the blame. She's trying to protect herself—and
maybe me. I still don't know what I'm going to tell the police when
they ask for my statement.

Someone's knocking on my door. "Come in."

It's Katya, my father's assistant. She's a
washed up model at just twenty-five years old. Her hair is the
color of honey, and she has broad Slavic cheekbones. She's
heartbreakingly beautiful. Every once in a while I see her swimming
topless in our forty-foot pool. On every other breath, a small,
evenly tanned breast pops out of the water. I'm pretty sure she's
sleeping with my father. I avoid her as much as possible.

She looks at me with tired eyes. "Your father
asked me to tell you that he's flying back from New York. He'll be
here this morning. He says not to talk to anyone until he gets
here."

No duh. When the cops looked at my driver's
license and realized I was Josiah Conroy's son, they called him
immediately. Dad basically owns Jasper Heights and everyone in it.
Then they gave me what was probably the most gentle and courteous
roadside sobriety test ever given. Once they established my
Breathalyzer was clean, they asked me to drop by the station
sometime over the next couple of days. At my convenience.

Katya's still standing in the doorway. I
realize I've been rude.

"Thanks," I say. But she still doesn't leave.
Instead, she takes a step into my room.

"Your father also said I should do anything I
can to make you comfortable. I know you've had a very terrible day.
You're a good-looking boy. Let me help you feel better."

She slowly unbuttons her shirt, and I stare,
transfixed. Then I remember Dad's hands exploring Ember's body and
all the pretty young things who show up here with red, swollen
eyes. I force myself to look away.

"It's OK, Katya. I'll be fine." Of course,
it's a lie, but one she's happy to accept. She shrugs and
disappears out my door, closing it behind her. A few minutes later,
I hear another knock.

"Katya, I said I'm fine, OK?"

I turn around, and it's not Katya. Not at
all. It's Ember. She drops her coat onto the floor and comes to
me.

/////////////////////////

Ember is sobbing and
shaking. Her face is chalky. Her eyes and nose are red. I want to
rage at her—
what the fuck were you thinking
when you grabbed the steering wheel?
Instead I take her in my arms and smell her hibiscus-scented
hair. She feels soft, warm, and fluttery against my chest. I'm a
big guy—about six-four and two hundred pounds—but I forget
sometimes how small she is. I close my eyes and take in the warmth
and closeness like an alkie sucking at the bottle.