Amends: A Love Story (6 page)

Maggie smirks and waves down
the bartender. He has long hair and intricate tattoos snaking down
his muscular arms.
Oh my God, it's the
nameless guy from the dance club.

"Hi, kid," he says, glancing at me. His tone
is cool, and his eyes are more wary than intense. He is not happy
to see me.

"Ethan," trills Maggie,
oblivious, "can you hook us up with some rum and Cokes? We've just
come from a funeral. It's been a really rough day. Especially for
her." She points at me and winks. All I can think is:
Ethan, that's his name.

"Sorry, kids. I can't do that, or I'll lose
my job."

Maggie makes a face at Ethan and sticks out
her tongue. "You're no fun. Well, I promised Amity's grandma I'd
help keep an eye on the rowdy nurses. I'll see you soon." Before I
can say anything, she's slipped off her stool and disappeared into
the main room. I can't believe she's left me alone with him.

"So what can I get you?" he asks.

"A Coke. Look, thanks again for bringing me
home the other night."

"Yeah, about that," he says. "I'd appreciate
it if you could ask your friend to keep that on the down low. I
have a girlfriend, and she might, uh, misinterpret the situation,
all right?"

I react first with disappointment—of course,
he has a girlfriend—and then with elation. I am thrilled that his
girlfriend—probably a college girl—might actually be jealous of me,
the Amityville Horror. I smile brightly, and he seems to relax.

"No problem, Ethan. I'll tell Maggie to keep
it quiet."

"Thanks a bunch, kid," he says, handing me my
drink. I take a sip and taste the sweetness of Coke combined with
something medicinal. It must be the rum and Coke Maggie had asked
for.

He winks. "Don't tell your little buddy about
this, either."

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

Gran insists on driving us home in the
half-dead, mostly rusted Mustang we borrowed from Dad this morning.
When I protest—I'm younger with better reaction times—she looks at
me with a strange, sad expression. "I can smell it on your breath,"
she says.

Oh God, I realize, she thinks I'm turning
into my father. Anything I can think of to say—it was just one
drink, I didn't even ask for it—sounds exactly like the kind of
bullshit he always told my mother whenever he turned up drunk at
the worst possible time. So I keep my mouth shut and let Gran take
the wheel.

We spend the whole trip in silence. When Gran
pulls into the driveway, I get out of the car and head inside. I go
straight to my room and stare at myself in the mirror. Except for
my small ears—Mom's were big—I look nothing like my father. Still,
I inspect the contours of my face for early signs of
alcohol-induced corruption. I'm gazing into my own eyes when I hear
Gran's cries for help.

"Amity! Come here! Please hurry!"

I follow her voice and find her and my father
in the living room. My father is lying on the floor in a pool of
his own vomit. Gran is hunched over, one hand clutching her
chest.

"Get my purse off the coffee table," she
gasps. "Find the pills. The Nitro."

I do as she says, and open the bottle. "How
many?" I ask.

"Two, please."

I hand her the tablets and she dry swallows
them. I know she's feeling better when she gradually stands up.

I glance down at my father and then back up
at Gran. I look her in the eye as steadily as I can. "I'm not my
father. That's not who I'm going to be. Ever."

Gran returns my look with her own cool gaze.
"I will pray every night that you're right," she says. Then she
places her hand on my shoulder and her expression softens into
something like pity, only sadder. "Girl, I'm so sorry I have to
tell you this. Your father is dead. I think he's drowned in his own
vomit."

Chapter 6: Laird

It's happening again. I'm standing outside
the crumpled Ford Escape. Ember is screaming and cursing in the
background. I see the bruised, swollen face of Laura Dormer, the
woman I killed. I know what I have to do—try to save her life by
compressing her chest and forcing air into her broken lungs.

As I go through the motions of CPR, I hear
Coach's gravelly voice in my ear. "Remember, it's a simple as
A-B-C. Airway. Breathing. Compressions. Check the airway. Pinch the
nose. Make a tight seal around the victim's lips and give 'em a
breath. Then compress the chest. Hell, if lip locking with a
stranger gives you the heebies, just stick with the compressions.
It's better than nothing." I tune him out and focus on the rhythm
of the breaths and compressions.

After what feels like an eternity, heavy
hands take hold of my shoulders and haul me up. I stumble to my
feet and find myself facing Coach. He slowly shakes his blocky
head. "Son, you've lost the game. Give it up already. It's time to
walk it off."

My face burns with rage. "Someone's dead. How
can I just walk it off?"

"You just do it, Laird. Go that way." He
points towards a dirt path leading into dense, swampy woods. I
think I see someone standing alongside it, but I'm not sure.
"Follow her," he says.

I squint my and try to make out the hazy,
indistinct figure. It's hard to see details in the moonlight, but I
can tell it's a tall girl around my age in a T-shirt and baggy
shorts. I think she looks at me, but I'm not sure. Before I can get
near her, she takes off like a frightened deer, disappearing into
the trees.

I run after her, my breath turning ragged.
Eventually, I get close enough to see her more clearly. She has
long, wild hair. Tendrils fly behind her like pennants. Although
she's fast—faster than any girl I've ever known—her gait is
strangely off-kilter. She looks like she's falling and catching
herself with every stride.

I know I'm not going to catch her. She moves
like liquid mercury. So I simply yell, "Stop! Please!"

She slows and turns around. Her hair settles
around her, cascading over her shoulders and resolving into glossy
curls. Her face is delicate, sensitive, and familiar. It's Amity,
the daughter of the woman I killed. She opens her mouth to say
something, but I don't hear it. Sirens are blaring, and they're
getting louder and closer.

I open my eyes and grab my bleating phone off
the nightstand. My alarm must have been going off for hours; it's
already past noon. I see the bottle of Ambien out of the corner of
my eye. Dad's doctor left me a prescription on the night of the
accident. It's a decidedly mixed blessing. It helps me sleep, but
it also gives me incredibly vivid dreams. Dreams that I would
rather not remember.

My phone vibrates. I have new texts. One from
Deegan:

Saturday afternoon BBQ, my place. You
in?

And one from Ember:

Are you going to Deegan's today? Really want
to see you.

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

"Want a beer, bro?" Deegan holds out the
Coors Light like a peace offering. I accept.

"Sure, man," I say, taking a long pull.
Deegan's folks are the kind of self-consciously cool parents who
don't mind if their kids drink, as long as they do it at home and
stay off the roads. A lot Jasper Heights parents are like that.
Benign neglect, they call it. They buy beer and booze for their
kids' parties and take weekend trips to New York and Vail.

The party is pretty chill—a casual afternoon
barbecue beside a huge kidney-shaped pool built in honor of
Deegan's mom, a successful nephrologist.

Deegan and I make our way to the grill. He
adjusts the flame and places eight perfectly formed jalapeño
burgers onto the rack. I flop down on a nearby chaise. It's a
cloudy, threatening day, all wrong for a pool party. Without
sunlight, the girls look pale and vulnerable in their bikinis.
Ember blows me a kiss. I wave back with the limp, languid motions
of a consumptive. She smiles and turns back to her companions, a
clutch of other honey-skinned blondes drinking sweet, fruity
concoctions.

Deegan flips burgers with élan. He's so good
he could easily get a job at one of the many snack shacks and grub
grills surrounding Lake Everclear. Of course, that would never
happen. Like all the kids in Jasper Heights, Deegan has a weekly
allowance that most wage slaves would envy. The cooks at the
lakeside burger barns are all from Triple Marsh, our poor sister
city.

Deegan lets the burgers sizzle and settles
down next to me. "You know, man," he says in a low, confidential
voice, "my dad is an insurance guy. He says the intersection where
you crashed is really poorly designed. One of the street lamps is
busted. And both stop signs are practically hidden by trees." He
looks me straight in the eye. "It could have fucking happened to
anyone."

"Yeah, but it happened to me," I snap and
immediately regret it. "Sorry, man. I'm still kind of fucked up.
You know, Mom, the accident. I shouldn't have come."

"No worries, dude." He eyes the empty can
next to me with brotherly concern. "I'm going to get you
another."

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

I'm six—or is that seven?—beers in, and my
outlook is now considerably more relaxed, although I'm still not up
for loud noises or sudden movements. I sit quietly on my chaise
like an invalid, watching the action.

The guys—all varsity football players—are
clustered around the diving board, taking turns showing off. Deegan
is rating their dives as harshly and creatively as possible. Some
of them are doing shots of Jack. I'd normally find this
tremendously entertaining, but all I can think is that someone's
going to break his neck and end up in a quadriplegic's chair for
the rest of his life.

The girls are watching and giggling as the
guys make gigantic asses out of themselves. Except for Ember. She's
sitting alone at a table, texting madly. Her face is lit softly by
the glow of her phone, her expression rapt. She must be texting one
of her friends. Maybe it's Sara, who's stuck at home with mono, or
one of her drama club buddies who won't do the football scene.

There's also someone else Ember could be
texting. The thought of it—of him—sickens me and turns my heart
into a jackhammer. I pick up my beer, looking forward to a long,
deep swallow, and realize it's empty. I decide I'll get another,
and another, and however many are necessary to get me well and
truly fucked up. Of course, I won't drive home. I'll crash at
Deegan's. I'll give Ember money for a cab. I'm trying to remember
if I still have the number for the Jasper Heights Cab Company in my
contacts list, when Ember stands and heads inside, probably for a
bathroom break.

She's left her phone tantalizingly
unattended. For about a second I remind myself that snooping and
spying is for insecure little pussies. Fuck it, I think, I've got
to know who she was texting. I make my way to her table and snatch
the phone. The other girls are absorbed in the diving spectacle, so
I'm free to snoop and spy unobserved. I type in her password and
immediately see she has a new text from a number stored as Bad
Idea. My eyes devour their conversation.

Ember: You of all people know I have a
boyfriend.

Bad Idea: At your age, that means
nothing.

Ember: That's not true. I have integrity. I
won't cheat on him.

Bad Idea: Oh, I'm not saying cheat on him.
Don't be dishonest. Break up with him first. Then you can be free
to explore other possibilities. Other forms of relating.

Ember: You mean like fucking you?

Bad Idea: Don't be crude, you little slut.
What I mean is that you're far too young for a monogamous
relationship. By the way, when do you turn eighteen? How would you
like to do a bit of shopping in New York City?

Ember: Your son said you'd do this. Wait for
me to turn legal and then try to hook up.

Bad Idea: I like the taste of young, ripe
fruit. And you, my dear, are a succulent plum, nearly ready to be
savored.

Ember: I'm not a plum. I'm a peach. And I'm
no low-hanging fruit. You'll have to climb a long way to get
me.

I'm interrupted by a loud, high female voice.
It's Ember. "What are you doing with my phone?"

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

Ember's mouth is moving, but I can hear
nothing except the roar of my rage. She is the worst girlfriend,
ever. Sure, she's not technically cheating, but text-flirting with
my father after everything I told her? I don't get it. I thought
she cared about me.

Ember is reaching out for me, grabbing at me
with her carefully manicured hands. Oh yeah, I think, she wants her
fucking phone. I throw it into the pool and stalk down the path
that leads to Deegan's back yard and the marshy woods behind it. In
the distance, I hear a chorus of female outrage, but no footsteps.
I realize she's not going to run after me. Good.

I open the gate and head into the woods. My
foot immediately sinks into the mud. Fuck it. I walk as fast as I
can away from everyone. A flash of lightning illuminates the sky
and underscores my black mood. I follow a small, foul-smelling
creek that's probably crawling with snakes and gators. Fat
raindrops pelt my back and shoulders. Uncaring, I keep walking
until I reach a narrow, paved path. I read a small placard and
discover it's part of the Jasper Heights lakeside trail system.

Mindlessly, I follow the paved trail until I
reach a quaint, covered park bench. I sit down on the wet seat and
listen to the thunder get louder and angrier. I feel so miserable
and alone. I tell myself I'm just a whiny little pussy with a
shitty girlfriend and a creepy father and a fucked up life. I can't
talk to my father for obvious reasons, and my mother's gone.
Deegan's my best friend, but he's also another guy, and guys don't
talk about this kind of shit. They just get each other beers.

I watch the rain pour off the shelter, and it
occurs to me that there's one person who might understand what I'm
going through right now, someone who's also riding the same waves
of anger, grief, and sorrow. It's Amity, the girl of my dreams and
my nightmares.