Amends: A Love Story (5 page)

After a long moment, she pulls away. "I'm so
sorry," she gulps. "What you said about me and your father made me
so mad. I just wasn't thinking."

A sudden rush of tenderness and sorrow takes
my breath away. I feel crushingly responsible for harming Laura
Dormer and her haunted daughter, but now I also want to protect
Ember. Yes, she should have been there for me at Mom's memorial,
but people are weird about death. They do strange, inexplicable
things. Plus, my dad is such an operator he probably made it so
Ember couldn't get away from him—the tragic, grieving
widower—without feeling like a total asshole. I shouldn't have
yelled at her. She shouldn't have grabbed the wheel.

I stroke her fine, blonde hair. It feels
slightly greasy. My mind flashes to Amity Dormer's long, fairytale
locks, and I imagine running my hand through them. Oh God, I am
such a sick fuck. I take a small step back and kiss Ember lightly
on the forehead.

"You know, we killed someone today." Just
speaking those words makes my voice and hands tremble.

Ember's lip quivers, and her eyes overflow
with tears. "Now what are we going to do?"

"Nothing," I say softly. "It was an accident.
A horrible accident."

I climb onto my bed—a soft, king-sized ocean
of comfort—and pull her to me. She rests her head on my chest. We
fall asleep like that, listening to each other's fragile, finite
heartbeats.

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

I swim back to consciousness from a
wonderfully blank, dreamless sleep. First, I'm aware of Ember's,
soft, warm weight, which has, in fact, become somewhat
uncomfortable. I shift my position and flex my hand. Now it's alive
and tingling from a flood of new blood. Next, I notice the world
outside my eyelids is surprisingly bright.

I open my eyes and see my father sitting
beside my bed in my Aeron, bouncing slightly. His blond hair flops
boyishly into his eyes, even though he hasn't been a boy for more
than twenty years. He's a wearing a trendy T-shirt and jeans, as if
he's just come from a wild night of club hopping.

"Good morning, son," he says soberly.

Ember awakens with a gasp and pops up like a
target in a shooting gallery. Her eyes are wide and panicked until
she touches her shirt. Then she relaxes, relieved that we fell
asleep in our clothes.

"Good morning to you, too, Ember." He gives
her a gentle smile. I'm relieved that his expression is concerned,
avuncular, and nothing more. "Actually, it's good you're here. What
I have to say to my son is essentially what your father is going to
say to you, too."

Ember and I nod, still emerging from our
sleepy haze.

"I know you're both in shock from the
accident last night. I'm sure you're both feeling raw." He pauses.
We nod again.

He continues, "It's because of your
feelings—your fine, sensitive feelings—that I don't want either of
you talking to the police, insurance companies, or any counsel
retained by the family of that unfortunate woman without a lawyer
present. My team will help you draft accurate statements for the
police report, and someone will be by your side during any official
conversations you have about the accident. Do you understand?"

We nod once again. Ember is gazing at him
with a sort of grateful reverence that bothers me. I suppose she's
glad he's taking charge of the situation. I tell myself to stop
being a paranoid asshole.

Dad takes my hand and Ember's, and we sit
silently, each of us alone with our thoughts. Mine hover around
Laura and her family like wounded birds too injured to fly anywhere
else. Her daughter, Amity, has been accepted into Adams College,
one of the most expensive colleges in the country. I wonder how
Amity is going to pay her tuition without her mom. Then it occurs
to me that there's something I know for sure my father—the
fabulously wealthy Josiah Conroy, America's favorite corporate
kingmaker—can do for her. I squeeze his hand.

"Dad, can't we just give that woman's family
some money? I know it won't bring her back, but it might help her
daughter pay for college. Isn't that the least we can do?"

Dad gently pulls his hand away and sighs
softly. "Laird, that's a noble sentiment. But any money we give
that family without some kind of court order will look like an
admission of guilt. Instead of simply being grateful, that woman's
husband and her daughter would most likely find a lawyer and go
after you—and maybe even Ember—for wrongful death. It could follow
you around for the rest of your life. No, it's best to leave the
financial aftermath to the insurance companies."

Ember looks enormously
relieved that there will be no consequences for our actions. But I
can't stop thinking about that phrase
admission of guilt
. Even if the car
wreck was technically an accident, I am guilty, and so is Ember. It
feels wrong that we will go on with our lives as if nothing has
really changed, while that girl—Amity—has probably lost her mother
and her college dreams in a single, agonizing blow.

I wonder what my mother would have wanted me
to do. I struggle—and fail—to hold back a surging wave of sorrow.
Soon I am sobbing uncontrollably like the little fucking pussy I
am. Ember gently strokes my back, while my father slips quietly out
of the room.

Chapter 5: Amity

"Good morning," purrs a low, male voice.

I open my swollen, sticky eyes and squint
into the early morning sunlight. I do a quick self orientation. The
torn wallpaper and quilted bedspread indicate I am, in fact, in my
own room. I pinch my arm, and it actually hurts. So I'm awake. My
head aches as I turn it slowly in the direction of the male voice
that could not possibly be here.

Oh my fucking God, I brought
him home with me
. It's the guy from the
dance club with the tattoos and the intense green eyes. I try to
piece together the sequence of events that led from the dance floor
to my narrow twin bed, but the large cups of cheap wine I drank
last night have burned holes in my memory. Did I kiss him? Did I do
anything else?

"What h-h-happened?" I ask with what feels
like an endless stammer.

He smiles the slow, predatory smile I
remember from the dance club. "We made sweet love all night long.
You rocked my world, little girl."

My mouth forms a perfect O of surprise as I
wonder how I could have forgotten that. I mean, I am—was?—a virgin
by circumstance, if not necessarily by choice.

Tattoo guy laughs. "Just kidding, little one.
I brought you home because your friend told me you were drunk and
out of your mind because your mom just died. Very sorry about that,
by the way. That really, truly sucks. I stayed over because your
dad seemed kind of wasted and insane. I didn't want to leave you
alone in any kind of bad situation."

I nod silently. Of course, nothing happened.
I am such an idiot. "That's very nice of you."

Tattoo guy laughs again. "You look
disappointed."

I shake my head. "I'm not," I say primly and
hop out of bed. I'm still wearing last night's clothes. They smell
like stale sweat and clove cigarettes.

"I'm hurt," he says, pretending to pout. He's
starting to annoy me until he stands up and I see his lean torso
covered in intricate ink. There are vines, Chinese characters, and
a large bird of some kind. I'm taking it all in when he throws on
the white T-shirt he wore at the club.

"Look, kid. I have class this morning. Are
you OK staying here, or can I give you a ride somewhere?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. My grandma is flying in this
morning. She'll keep us all in line."

He smiles. "Sounds great. Well, I've got to
go."

He walks towards the door, stops, and pierces
me with his heart-stopping green eyes. "Take care, kid."

After he's gone, my head starts throbbing in
earnest. I lie back down on my bed, and then I remember: I never
did catch his name.

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

Freshly showered and changed, I tiptoe down
the hall and into the kitchen, where I smell freshly baked banana
muffins. Gran is standing by the stove, inspecting the muffin tops.
She's tall—about my height of five-ten—with ropy muscles and long
iron-colored hair gathered into a bun. Put her in a bonnet and a
prairie dress, and give her a rifle, and she would be a convincing
pioneer.

"Gran!" I say, my eyes filling with
tears.

She smiles ruefully. Her eyes are dry and
tired. "I let myself in. Your father was in sorry shape.
Understandable under the circumstances, I suppose. I sent him to
bed. Hopefully, he'll sleep it off."

"Thank you." I take a long, deep breath,
thankful that someone who is not me is finally in charge.

Gran extends her arms. "Come here, girl." I
launch myself into a shuddering, tearful hug and rest my head on
Gran's strong shoulder.

After I don't know how long, Gran gently
disengages and looks me over from head to toe. She frowns. "You
look thin, girl."

My mouth twitches into a half-grin. "You
always say that. Anyway, it's not my fault. It's your
genetics."

Gran smiles back, and now there are tears in
her eyes as well. "You look so much like your mother did at your
age. Well, you'll have to tell me all about that fancy college you
got into."

She pauses, and her smile turns sly. "And
you'll have to tell me all about that young man who skulked out of
here this morning."

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

It's the day of Mom's memorial service, and
I'm trying my best to keep my shit together. Fortunately, I'm
standing between Gran and Maggie. They'll help me stay focused. I'm
going to give the eulogy, and I'm terrified that I'll stammer
excessively, burst into tears, faint, or any combination
thereof.

Maggie takes my hand. "Don't worry, bitch.
You're going to kick ass. Your mom would have been so fucking
proud."

I grip her hand, unable to speak without
breaking into sobs. Maggie, as always, detects my distress.

"What's wrong?" she asks. "I mean, aside from
the obvious?"

"It's those p-p-pictures," I stutter,
pointing at the wall where a photographic retrospective of Mom's
life is playing on a loop. The photos flicker by, assaulting me
with memories while an instrumental version of Amazing Grace trills
in the background. Here's Mom, pale and tired, holding me as a
newborn in a fuzzy pink hat. Click. Now Mom's dancing at her
wedding with cake on her face, her black hair flying around her
like ribbons. Click. Mom's waggling her tongue at the camera.
Click. Mom's holding a giant pumpkin from her garden.

"Look at me," says Maggie, putting her hands
on my shoulders. "Try not to fixate on the photos."

A trim, competent-looking woman with short
brown hair stops in front of us and regards me with appraising
eyes. "You must be her daughter," she says. "You look just like
her. I'm Brenda."

"Thanks," I reply, grateful for the
distraction." So how did you know her? Did you work together at the
hospital?"

"Yes, we did. I'm a pediatric oncology nurse.
Your mom and I crossed paths quite a bit. She was a tremendously
compassionate woman."

I nod, again unable to speak. Brenda takes my
cold, trembling hand in her warm, capable one and gives it a firm
squeeze. Then she pulls me into a quick hug.

After Brenda leaves, I check the time. Damn.
I'm supposed to give the eulogy in just ten minutes. The
nondenominational minister we hired to manage the service—a short,
bald man with a goofy smile my mom would have loved—is calling
everyone to take their seats. Maggie gives me a quick hug and a
whispered "Good luck."

Gran is standing with her arms crossed and a
grim expression on her face. I'm pretty sure I know what the
problem is.

"Any sign of Dad?" I ask.

Gran's frown deepens so her mouth is
bracketed by deep, long parentheses. "I'm sorry to say it, but your
father is a weak man. He loved your mother and he loves you, but
he's goddamned weak."

"I know, Gran. I know."

The rent-a-pastor has begun his prepared
remarks. I'm almost up. I turn to walk towards the podium, when
Gran clutches at my arm.

"You'll do fine, you know. You're strong.
Just like your mother."

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

"The kids will miss her kindness, and the
doctors will miss her long legs and fine ass. To Laura!" A table of
middle-aged nurses—Mom's work friends—raise their wine glasses and
drink. Again.

After the funeral, we all drove to the
Lakeside Grill, a slightly rundown establishment on the Triple
Marsh side of Lake Everclear. Most everyone toasting Mom's memory
is from the hospital. Mom was the only child of two only children.
She didn't have any family, except for me, Dad, and Gran.

Of course, Dad is nowhere to be found. I
texted him three times that we were coming here. I'm shocked that
he's passed up a socially sanctioned opportunity to get publicly
drunk.

Gran is moving from table to table, making
sure everyone has enough to eat and drink. Maggie and I have
retreated to the bar.

"Those nurses sure know how to party," she
says.

"Yeah, I know." I stare down at the scarred
wooden bar top. I can't believe Dad didn't even show up for the
funeral. I bet he's lying on the couch, drinking beer and watching
TV.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't believe my dad was a no-show."

"Did you really expect anything else?"

"Not really."

We sit silently for a moment, listening to
the laughter drift in from the other room. Maggie pastes a wide
smile on her face, determined to cheer me up. "Let's try to have a
little fun. I bet I can get the bartender to serve us drinks. Real
drinks."

I look at Maggie and raise my eyebrows. Her
face is bare, and she looks like an overdeveloped twelve-year-old
angel. "I seriously doubt it," I say, fiddling with a tiny
straw.